The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  My voice caught in my throat as I began to call for help. Then I saw that Nahkt had grasped the monster’s jaws and pried them apart, revealing that the ancient Sacred One retained not a single tooth in his elongated snout.

  I left the temple shortly thereafter, having decided I would have to inform Amasis that my investigations had ended in failure. I wondered whether I should mention the earring. Were acacia flower earrings such an uncommon ornament? Perhaps it would be kinder not to draw his attention to it, since he had obviously not yet noticed its presence on the sacred crocodile. Yet hadn’t he accused the priests of stealing from the dead? It might well be proof of his claim. Or perhaps leaving it and presumably its mate as an offering was a clever way to dispose of things that would immediately implicate the person found possessing them in a terrible crime. However, on the other hand might it be that that his pious wife had offered them to the Sacred One, considering them worthy of the holy beast because Amasis had commissioned them especially – or as a gesture of derision because she did not?

  Yet if Tahamet had indeed been murdered, I could not fathom who might be responsible or for what reason. It appeared to me that Mi’s insinuations were probably correct and that Amasis’ wife had been betraying him. Therefore, despite his claim of being concerned for Tahamet’s safety, I believed that Amasis suspected his wife and that was the real reason he had arranged to have her secretly followed by Mose.

  Was her infidelity with his rival, Haphimen? After all, the governor was certainly richer and more powerful than her husband. Could Tahamet have been attracted to Haphimen because of that?

  The two boys I had seen at the river raced past me. Dust clung to their wet skin, making them appear as if they had been rolled in wheat flour. They stared back over their thin shoulders at me, dark eyes wide at the sight of a stranger.

  I recalled seeing the boys diving into the Nile’s crocodile-infested waters and admired their courage, although it was born of childish lack of fear.

  Then, in an instant, I knew my investigation would end in success.

  It was growing dark in the Hall of the Crocodiles when I returned with Amasis, Haphimen and several of the governor’s guards. Animated by flickering torchlight, shadows cast by the reptilian mummies appeared to creep stealthily around the pedestals upon which the creatures lay. The eerie sight gave me the distinct sensation that razor-sharp teeth were about to clamp onto my legs and drag me down into oblivion.

  “So, Herodotus, thanks to your investigation we will finally discover the truth of the matter.” As he spoke, Amasis glared first at Haphimen and than at Zemti, who had reluctantly agreed to receive our party.

  “You may not wish to hear the truth, Amasis.” I spoke quietly but my voice was magnified by the walls of the great stone chamber. “Even though I believe you already knew that your wife was being unfaithful.”

  “With Haphimen,” Amasis growled. He stepped towards his rival but one of the guards blocked his way with a lance.

  “No. In fact, Tahamet had been drawn to the village’s wealthiest and most powerful man – Zemti.” I pointed at the head priest, whose features betrayed no emotion in the fitful light.

  “It was Zemti who murdered her,” I went on, “and I know now how he concealed her body.”

  Zemti’s voice was cold. “You may not believe in the might of Sobek, Herodotus, but His wrath will find and strike you down nevertheless. What proof can you offer of this blasphemous lie?”

  “The evidence lies in this very hall atop one of these pedestals,” was my reply. “You see, I chanced to observe boys playing in the river today and it later occurred to me that the human form, when the arms are stretched out above the head to dive, resembles the shape of a crocodile. Tahamet’s body was never found because you immediately wrapped it in imitation of a sacred mummy before the governor’s search, which you would surely be expecting. This concealed the crime until later, when you mummified her and placed her in this hall. Perhaps you would point her out to us?”

  Zemti paled but said nothing. I glanced towards Haphimen. His face betrayed his struggle to conceal a grim smile. In truth, I was afraid to look in Amasis’ direction, for I did not care to see the visage of a man who has just discovered his beloved had been so mistreated.

  “Of course, the governor could order his guards to simply begin unwrapping these mummies until we find the right one,” I finally suggested.

  Zemti remained silent but immediately turned and walked past several pedestals, finally placing his hand on a particular mummy.

  “I concealed her thus because I did not wish to bring shame upon the temple of Sobek,” he said quietly. “However, I swear that I did not murder her. It’s true that we had a bitter argument. She claimed she could do better for herself by going elsewhere. There was a man, a foreigner, she said, who would take her away, to Memphis or to Thebes perhaps. A Hellene. In my rage I pushed her. She fell into the Sacred One’s pool. I offered her to Sobek’s judgment and walked away. And He let her drown, shallow though the pool is.”

  He stopped and I could see he was now trembling uncontrollably. He ran his hand convulsively over his immaculately shaved scalp and spat out the rest of his confession. “You see, Herodotus, I lost my temper when . . . when she said she’d kissed a Hellene on the lips!”

  From respect for those involved, I will not describe exactly what we found inside the linen wrappings, except that the limbs of Tahamet’s body had been arranged much as I surmised. Nor can I reveal anything about the identity of the foreigner about whom she had spoken, for this remains unknown. It’s true that I was myself introduced to a number of village women by the governor’s wife during my first visit. However, I recall little about them individually for although they were fascinated by me, they had no interesting tales to relate. And though one or two may have made as if to give me a playful kiss, these were never on the lips, unless, perhaps, by accident.

  These things that I have related I saw with my own eyes. However, in closing this account I must include certain information that I received some time later while travelling elsewhere in that strange country.

  I can hardly lend credence to what I must now record but it was related to me by a priest of a certain temple in Heliopolis, whose denizens I count as among the most learned in Egypt.

  When I questioned him concerning Zemti’s fate, thinking word of such a scandal would surely have reached his ears, this priest told me that he did not know anything about it. However, he added, the inhabitants of the village of which I have written abandoned the worship of Sobek when they learned of Tahamet’s death and its aftermath. Nor, he went on, could he find fault with them, for all unknowingly they had been worshipping not only the sacred crocodile mummies but also the body of a common village woman, and one of no virtue at that.

  And as extraordinary as that may seem, there is one last event to recount before my tale is concluded.

  In the unrest that resulted, this priest went on, it was discovered that down through the years many of Sobek’s priests had shared Zemti’s worldly appetites. For when all the sacred mummies were removed from the Hall of the Crocodiles, it was discovered that in fact most of the bodies so carefully preserved there were not of crocodiles, but of women.

  THE JUSTICE OF ISIS

  Gillian Bradshaw

  Another leap, this time of 400 years, brings us to the age of the Ptolemies. The first Ptolemy had been a general under Alexander the Great, who had conquered Egypt in 332 BC. After Alexander’s death Ptolemy took control over Egypt and established his own dynasty. Most of them were weak kings and by the time of Ptolemy XII, the legitimate line had become extinct. This Ptolemy was the illegitimate son of Ptolemy IX and so was nicknamed ‘Auletes’ (the Bastard). He was not a popular ruler and was expelled from Alexandria in BC 58, but was restored with the support of Rome. He thus became a puppet ruler.

  The following story has possibly the strangest crime I have ever encountered, but I shall let you discover it for yourse
lf. A classical scholar, and recipient of the Phillips Prize for Classical Greek (in 1975 and 1977), Gillian Bradshaw is a noted writer of both fantasy and historical fiction. Several of her books have Egyptian connections, including The Beacon at Alexandria (1986) and the recent Cleopatra’s Heir (2002).

  The crowd was a complete mix – prosperous citizens in brightly coloured cloaks shouting, women shrieking behind linen veils, angry shopkeepers in leather aprons, a handful of half-naked labourers shaking their fists. In the thick of it was a shaven-headed priest in a long linen tunic, gesticulating wildly. I had been sauntering up the Canopic Way thinking of nothing more important than what to eat for lunch when I saw it, and instantly recognized trouble.

  The mob had formed in the portico on the north side of the Canopic Way, just at the junction with Serapeion Street – the very heart of Alexandria, greatest city in the world. I pushed my way into the middle of it, and saw the focus of attention: a man with a sword. He stood under the portico with his back to the wall of a bronzesmith’s shop, and he had the light-coloured hair of a barbarian. A priest and a barbarian: a bad, bad combination.

  There were a lot of barbarian soldiers in the city that year – Gabinians, we called them, after their commander Gabinius. Ptolemy the Bastard had come back from Rome the year before with an army of them. You know the reason, don’t you? He bought his throne from the Romans with ten thousand talents he borrowed from a Roman moneylender, and the army was the moneylender’s, to collect the debt. The Bastard was happy with this, since it prevented the Alexandrians from kicking him out again, and the money stolen and extorted wasn’t his. The Alexandrians, of course, felt rather differently. I hated the Gabinians as much as everyone else did, but I knew I had to rescue the sword-toting thug anyway. There would be reprisals if he were lynched, and their inevitable accompaniment, riots. I’ve had to clear up the streets after riots. Oh, gods, that poor little trampled baby, and that girl with the stake through her belly, and the smell, the smell! It wakes me sweating in the middle of the night. I’d rather die than see it again.

  The first trick to imposing order is to sound as if you have the authority to do so. “Right!” I roared to the mob at large. “What’s the reason for this disorder?”

  The priest turned to me wild-eyed, too furious to question my right to intervene. “Sacrilege!” he shouted. “This savage defiled the altar of our holy mother!” He was a young man, tall and athletic-looking, but he was sweating and out of breath. The cut of his long tunic, which left his right shoulder bare, proclaimed that he served the goddess Isis, whose temple lay just up Serapeion Street. Worse and worse: the barbarian had offended, not just any god, but the most popular divinity in the city.

  I groaned, and – to show that I was on the priest’s side – picked up a pinch of dust from the street and tossed it over my head. Then I turned my attention to the barbarian. The red tunic and the mail shirt he was wearing were indeed Roman military issue. His hair and his scraggly beard were ginger, and his eyes were a pale blue. He was in his mid-twenties, and his expression was a mixture of bewilderment and panic. Whatever he’d done in the temple, he hadn’t expected the result. “You!” I yelled at him. “You speak Greek?”

  He blinked, momentarily taken aback, and said “Yes,” in a shaking voice. Then he added ferociously, “I am innocent!” He had a strange accent, but he did seem to understand. That was a relief: many of the Gabinians didn’t speak a word of any civilized tongue.

  “This holy man accuses you of sacrilege!” I barked at him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I am innocent!” he declared again, waving his sword for emphasis. “I wasn’t even there when they put the shit on the altar!”

  There was a moment of shocked silence as the crowd took in what he’d said, and understood just how crudely the altar of their beloved goddess had been defiled. Then there was a howl of outrage and a surge forwards. The barbarian waved his sword and the surge stopped – but only just. I was aware of somebody on the fringes of the crowd turning aside to look in the street for loose stones. “Liar!” cried the priest furiously. “It was you, you filth: nobody else was there!”

  “Let the goddess judge him!” I suggested, raising my voice to drown them out. “Take him back to the temple, and see if he can lie in front of her sacred image!”

  It wasn’t an outstanding ploy, but it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. In spite of what you in the West may have heard about the bloodthirstiness of Egyptians, our temples are just as much places of sanctuary as anyone else’s. Killing him in the temple precincts would double the sacrilege, so if I could get him there, he’d be safe.

  Luckily, the crowd were so outraged that they expected Isis to strike the evil-doer dead the moment he crossed her threshold, and they welcomed the suggestion with cheers. The priest, however, was well aware that his goddess was unlikely to be so obliging, and he stared at me in surprised dismay. I hurriedly moved closer and tried an honest appeal in a whisper: “My lord, if this fellow is killed here on the street, without trial, you know as well as I do that his friends will punish the whole city – and defile the temple all over again. If you can keep him prisoner at the temple, though, I’ll go and inform my master, the market superintendent. He can see to it that the matter is dealt with by the city, instead of by the Romans – that the man is tried for sacrilege, and pays the penalty.”

  His expression cleared. “You work for the market superintendent?”

  I should, perhaps, explain that in Alexandria the market superintendent is a very important man. This is because we don’t have a city council – we did once, but it was abolished after it had some disagreements with a king. In consequence, the only elected officials the city has are those it can’t manage without, like the superintendent of schools and the market superintendent. These offices thus carry all the honour and respect which in other cities are given to more elevated magistracies.

  I pulled out my licence, which I wear on a thong around my neck, but one of the shopkeepers in the crowd had overheard and elbowed his way over to us. All the shopkeepers on the Canopic Way knew me. “That’s Peridromon,” he informed the priest. “He belongs to the superintendent’s office all right; he’s their prime pest.” I’d fined him once for obstructing the thoroughfare.

  The priest considered for a moment. He knew as well as I did that even if we could get the barbarian tried for sacrilege, it would likely end only in a fine and a dishonourable discharge from the army. On the other hand, he also knew what would happen if the fellow were lynched.

  “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “You can bring him to the temple – if he surrenders now and hands over his arms!”

  That, frankly, was a lot easier for him to ask than for me to deliver. The Gabinian still had his back against the wall and his sword drawn, and he was studying the crowd as though he was only waiting for someone to come close enough to skewer. I couldn’t let things take their course, though, and face another heap of bodies. I held up both hands so that the barbarian could see I was unarmed, and stepped forwards. The Gabinian immediately pointed the sword at me. I kept my hands in the air and my eyes on his face and took another step forwards until the sword was almost touching my chest, telling myself meanwhile that I could always fling myself backwards if he lunged. The strange pale eyes bored into mine with an expression of desperate urgency.

  “I’m innocent!” the barbarian declared for the third time. I was close enough now to see how heavily he was sweating. The red tunic was damp enough to rust his mail. He stank of armour-grease and fear.

  “These good people don’t believe you,” I replied, keeping my voice calm and steady. “But if you come with me now, they won’t take matters into their own hands. Come back to the temple and you’ll have a fair trial.”

  The point of the sword trembled a little. The Gabinian bit his lip.

  “The temple is a place of sanctuary,” I pointed out. “The Canopic Way isn’t. These peo
ple are very angry, and it’s a long way to your barracks. I’m telling you plainly: unless you give up your sword and come with me now, you won’t live another hour.”

  The Gabinian’s lip began to bleed where he’d bitten it. He stared at me a moment longer, then abruptly sheathed the sword.

  I let out a breath. I hadn’t been aware of holding and took one more step forwards to catch hold of his arm. The Gabinian flinched, but did not resist. He unfastened his sword belt and handed the weapon over. I took it gingerly – the most dangerous weapon I’ve ever used is a cudgel – and strapped it over my shoulder. Then I waved the mob back. “Out of the way!” I shouted. “This man has surrendered to Isis! The priest and I are going to take him to her temple, to meet her judgment!”

  The priest was momentarily surprised to be roped in, but he rose to it, and came forwards to take the Gabinian’s other arm. The barbarian allowed us to hustle him up Serapeion Street. I noticed in passing that the man who’d been looking for stones had collected some, and I gave him a steely glare. He looked sullen, but didn’t throw any – not because of me, I’m sure, but because he was afraid of hitting a priest.

  The temple of Isis, if you’re not familiar with it, is part of the Serapeion, the magnificent temple complex constructed by the first Ptolemy in the name of Serapis and Isis. It is the greatest temple in the city, and stands at Alexandria’s highest point. The sacred precinct is enclosed within a wall of finely worked stone, and entrance is via a single monumental gateway. That gate lay nearly half a mile from the Canopic Way, unfortunately, uphill along a busy street. The priest and I were eager to get the Gabinian to safety, but we were impeded by the crowd, and the walk seemed to take forever. Most of those who’d witnessed the confrontation abandoned their own business to accompany us – no doubt in the hope of seeing the evil-doer struck dead – and they informed everyone they met of what was going on, so that by the time we finally arrived at the temple we were in the middle of a huge crush of people, all in a very ugly mood. Sacrilege is absolutely guaranteed to spark trouble, and everyone hates the Gabinians. I kept tight hold of the barbarian, occasionally shouting, “This man belongs to Isis!” to keep the stones from flying, but I had no idea how to get him through the gate. The priest, however, let go of the prisoner and plunged into the mob with his arms stretched wide. The crowd respected his robe and shaven head and stood aside, and the barbarian and I managed to jostle through behind him. When we passed under the shadow of the gateway and entered the white paved temple precincts I sighed with relief. So did the Gabinian, which showed that, barbarian though he was, he wasn’t stupid.