Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner

by Murray Bailey

  The old man nodded thoughtfully. “This is what we will do. Joachim, you will travel with them to Dairut without Wael.”

  Wael began to protest but was silenced by a look before the old man continued: “We will find a good reason why Marek cannot travel. And we must not give Mr MacLure the opportunity to confirm his doubts.” He looked at Wael. “You will do something to establish your credibility. Yes?”

  Wael looked down and then back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now go and get some sleep,” the old man said. “You will need all your wits about you.”

  “And if I can’t get the map?”

  The old man lit a fresh cigar with rapid sucks and then a long draw. After he had blown out the flame, phlegm rattled as he spoke. “Then we will use Joachim’s plan.” He looked at the young man. “If we can’t obtain the map from Mr MacLure using peaceful means, then I think Joachim is quite capable of extracting the information.”

  FORTY-TWO

  1332 BCE, near Elephantine

  Three years had passed since the magistrate had taken Yanhamu under his wing. He sat in the Chair of Justice beneath a temporary awning. Hapuseneb the slave stood behind the chair fanning him. There was a small gathering outside and, close by, a guard stood beside a beekeeper. A small group of peasants were penned in one corner and controlled by a group of twenty guards. There was an expectant hush as the people awaited the magistrate’s ruling.

  “What do you think?” the magistrate asked quietly of Yanhamu.

  The young man, standing beside the magistrate, straightened his tunic, looked to the west and mountains that were starting to glow red in the evening sun. “It seems unfair, my lord.”

  The magistrate inclined his head, stood and raised his staff of office in one hand, the ostrich feather of justice in the other. He began with the traditional pronouncement: “Before the gods, before Hathor, Ma-at and Thoth, before Pharaoh and Horus, in the name of the Law of the Two Lands, I have come to my judgement.

  “The temporary houses that have been constructed within one hundred cubits of the beekeeper’s fields will be knocked down.” He looked at the Clerk of the Land Registry who smiled and nodded.

  The peasants gasped and a woman wailed, “This is the only fertile land!” Then she cried out as a guard struck her with his staff.

  “Silence!” he yelled.

  The magistrate continued, “This is my judgement. This is the law. So be it.” He struck his staff of office on the ground to signal the end of the session and turned to Yanhamu.

  The young man finished writing the magistrate’s words on a scroll and placed them inside a tamarisk wooden box. His eyes did not look up to meet the magistrate’s.

  Later, in their smoky temporary quarters, Magistrate Khety said, “You have been exceptionally quiet this evening, my boy.”

  Yanhamu wafted the mosquito-repelling smoke from his face so that he could see his master better while he pondered his response. They had finished their meal and Lord Khety had consumed more than his usual amount of beer.

  “Boy?”

  “Perhaps we should talk about it tomorrow, my lord—after the final case.”

  The magistrate grunted. “No, I want to talk about it now. You are troubled by my judgement, aren’t you? We have listened to those people all afternoon. We visited the beehives, we saw the peasant’s houses, noted the presence of the bees in the air.” He took another drink and looked into Yanhamu’s face. “So tell me, boy, what was your judgement?”

  “My lord, the beekeeper claimed to have worked this plain all his life. He told us that his family has tended bees here for six generations. We heard from the Overseer of the Fields that honey produced here is by royal commission. We saw the white stakes that mark the honey-flower fields and walked around the perimeter and confirmed the size of the fields match the records of the land registry. The beekeeper complained that the peasants kill his bees in their village—if that is what their collective hovels can be called. He claimed they also go into his fields, disturb the bees and steal the honey.”

  The magistrate nodded.

  “We heard from the Clerk of the Land Registry that the peasants’ houses are not on the registry because they are outside the city limits and are poor and badly constructed. The people choose to live here because there is a short belt of fertile land and drainage water.”

  “So they have no rights.”

  “But they have the right to ma-at… and to live without injustice.”

  The magistrate scoffed. “They choose to live beside a field of bees. How can they complain about that? And there can be no justification for theft or destruction of anything!”

  “I agree, my lord, but there has been no evidence of theft and only the beekeeper’s word that they have killed and disturbed the bees, although I could read no evidence of untruth in his face. Perhaps there has been theft, but it does not mean these people are the guilty ones. Perhaps in the past there has been damage to beehives, but it could have been the wind. Perhaps bees have disappeared, but they are as likely to have been eaten by the birds.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps! Have I taught you nothing about the Law of the Two Lands?”

  “Yes, my lord, you have taught me that it is unfair.” Yanhamu saw his master scowl then and knew he should not continue, but he couldn’t help himself. “The law talks of harmony and justice and yet it seems to me that this justice is unbalanced, unequal.”

  A cough from the far end of the room reminded Yanhamu that the slave Hapuseneb was standing in attendance. He was reminded that over the years he had served the magistrate, Yanhamu had gained in status and was almost treated as one of the family. He hesitated, the frustration at the inequality of the law bubbling in his blood.

  The magistrate eyed him and gulped down some more beer. “Oh don’t stop now, boy. Let’s hear your wise judgement.”

  Yanhamu swallowed and took a sip of his own cup of bitter southern beer. “The peasants should have the same rights as the beekeeper. Well, in fact, the beekeeper is merely a representation of the city and state. The overseer and the land registry clerk were not impartial witnesses because they are part of the state.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “We both saw that the stakes had been moved over time. The area of the bee fields remains the same, but the beekeeper has undoubtedly moved them gradually over time as the desert has claimed the area to the north-west.”

  “The land registry does not deny the beekeeper this right.”

  “I do not deny that the beekeeper has rights—according to the land registry, but why should the peasants’ houses not be counted. Why can’t they have land rights?”

  Hapuseneb came to the table, apparently to clear away dishes. He caught Yanhamu’s eye and glared.

  “More beer, Paneb!” the magistrate ordered from the slave and nudged him aside.

  Yanhamu continued: “I would have judged that the beekeeper should move his stakes and hives one hundred cubits back and create an area between that the peasants must not encroach upon. The beekeeper can maintain his land by expanding elsewhere.”

  “You are a fool, boy!”

  “Perhaps…”

  “Ha! Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps!”

  He quaffed another beer and yelled at Hapuseneb again.

  Yanhamu felt tears prickle his eyes. He had not intended it to end this way, but he could hold back no longer. “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “No you are not. I need you.” There was a subterranean growl full of menace in the magistrate’s voice.

  “You need me because you are going blind, old man.” Yanhamu stood, his hands clenched in frustration. Immediately, he felt his arms pinned by the slave’s strong grip.

  The magistrate slapped the table. “Sit down. I have not finished. And never show me such disrespect again!”

  Yanhamu was forced to sit, and although released, he knew Hapuseneb stood behind him ready for whatever happened next.

  For a long time, the magistrate looked
into his drink. When he looked up, the anger had dissipated and a sadness was reflected in his eyes like dull cataracts. “Yes, I need you to be my eyes. Even when you first boldly spoke to me, I knew my power to see the truth was fading, and over the past three years it has become so bad that I can no longer make out a man’s features when he is more than two paces away. Without your ability, I am finished.

  “Have I not fed you? Have I not taught you to read and write? Have I not pretended you are not from the gutter? Have I not let you live amongst the high class and shown you a life you would never have lived?”

  Yanhamu felt like saying that the motivation had been selfish, but used a calming trick the magistrate himself frequently used; he counted to three before he said, “That is true.”

  “And where will you go? Back to your stinking village?”

  “I will join the Medjay.”

  The magistrate laughed loudly as though Yanhamu had told him a great joke. “Egypt’s best fighting force of Nubians. Well good luck with that!” He stopped laughing and stared, the animal growl returning to his voice, “If you leave, you leave with nothing. You are but a boy who does not know how to fight. You will be the lowliest and the weakest and just padding for His Majesty’s front line against the Hittites. You will be dead before a year is out.”

  “That may be, but I must at least try to learn to fight. I am a man now and I have my honour.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Yanhamu stood slowly and bowed. Hapuseneb stepped back.

  “Because, my lord, I have learned that the law cannot bring me justice. There is a man who must pay for the death of my sister.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The stories of Yanhamu swirled around in his head all night. He had taken to dreaming that he was the ancient Egyptian. When Alex awoke, the sun was streaming through a gap in the curtains. Vanessa wasn’t in his bed, although he couldn’t recall her leaving. He had a thumping head as though he had jetlag. Which was nonsense since there was just a two hour time difference. Gingerly, he made his way into the bathroom and climbed into the shower. After five minutes of pummelling water, he began to feel alive and hungry. Getting dressed, he noted the time was midday. He picked up the phone and called Vanessa’s room. There was no answer.

  As he dressed, Alex spied an envelope pushed under his door. Expecting it to be a message from Vanessa, he was surprised to read a note from Marek. It said he’d found something in the texts.

  I now wonder if it wasn’t Meryra after all who hid the treasure! I also need to finish a review of an MRI scan for my professor, so I’ll be delayed a day or so.

  Inside the envelope were two train tickets and the address of a hotel in Dairut, a town Alex had never heard of.

  He found Vanessa in the lobby nursing a miniature cup containing what looked like black mud. He leaned over her but she moved her head at the last minute so that his kiss landed on her cheek.

  “It’s a Muslim country,” she said with the raising of an eyebrow. “We must be discreet.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I didn’t sleep much. You?”

  “Too well, I think.” He rubbed his face. “I don’t know whether it’s jetlag or what, but I only just woke up and I feel like the walking dead.”

  There was a silver pot on the table. She poured more mud into her cup and handed it to him. “Knock back this coffee. You’ll soon feel better.”

  He knocked back the glutinous liquid. After a couple of swallows to make sure it had gone, Alex told Vanessa about Marek’s note and showed her the tickets. “We have three and a half hours before our train leaves. After we eat, I want to go to the Egyptian Museum.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think we should check out our friend—just as a precaution.”

  “You’re suspicious about something?”

  Alex pressed his fingers around his right eye socket where the headache seemed to have found a home. “There was the thing about the research… he seemed nervous. He had shifty eyes too, didn’t you think?”

  “Oh, Alex, you’re being paranoid! Didn’t you notice his teeth?”

  “No.”

  “They were discoloured. He’s a heavy smoker and we didn’t see him smoke once, did we? I think he was suffering from nicotine withdrawal—being kind to us.”

  From reception, Alex took a map that had a number of local eateries marked on it by the concierge. When they stepped out onto the street, the acrid air immediately assaulted their noses. The road was packed with slow-moving cars.

  After a short walk they found a reasonable-looking café, busy with locals and a sprinkling of tourists, and sat at a round table beside the road. Vanessa enjoyed selecting something random from the menu. It turned out to be a plate of falafel and crudités which Alex was relieved to find looked edible.

  After another strong cup of coffee, washed down with a bottle of water, Alex began to feel human again. There was no bill, just a price the waiter seemed unsure about. It was much more than Alex expected and, as he dealt out the cash, he reminded himself to agree prices beforehand.

  They studied the map and located the museum close to the bank of the Nile.

  Vanessa said, “Too far to walk.”

  They looked up and down the road and a taxi driver immediately sounded his horn and waved.

  Alex leaned over. “How much to the museum?”

  “Fifty.”

  Alex looked at Vanessa. She shrugged.

  Alex said, “Twenty Egyptian.”

  The driver shook his head, “Forty is best price.”

  “Thirty is my best price.”

  The driver shook his head. “Forty.”

  Alex turned away. “Let’s try another.”

  Vanessa started to complain, when the driver shouted after them, “OK. OK. Thirty.”

  As they climbed into the rear, the driver said, “To the museum, thirty each.”

  “No! Thirty total.”

  “OK. OK.”

  “At least it’s slow,” Vanessa said when they realized the seat belts didn’t work.

  They weaved in and out and cut through many side roads, leaving Alex confused about the route. He glanced at Vanessa, who seemed perfectly happy, and he tried to dismiss worries that they were being taken somewhere to be mugged. Finally they emerged at a large roundabout they recognized from the TV coverage of the riots: Tahrir Square. Beyond, they could see the imposing building of the museum. The driver stopped by security barriers where armed soldiers stood behind movable metal screens.

  “Forty,” the driver said, and his face went from serious to splitting into a cheeky grin.

  Alex dealt out thirty pounds.

  “Tip?”

  Alex laughed and gave the man another ten.

  “You need a guide?” the driver asked as they climbed out.

  “No thanks,” Alex said, and they walked away, past the barriers, to join a queue for tickets to the museum.

  The adjacent road was crammed with coaches. Security men shouted at the drivers, who responded by shouting back. Alex wondered whether they were being told to move along, but from the tone, the conversations didn’t seem to be good-natured.

  “Is it safe?” Vanessa asked.

  Alex pulled a face. “I hope so! Let’s just keep out of the way of anyone with a gun.”

  At the gates they filed slowly through a detector and Vanessa had her handbag checked. To the right, people queued to buy entry tickets. In front of them was a garden and the garish entrance to the museum.

  Vanessa said, “What is it about Egyptians and salmon-pink buildings?”

  They followed the path through the garden littered with chunks of stone, remnants of statues and broken temple blocks, like the biscuit crumbs of the gods.

  A few drops of rain made them look up.

  Alex said, “Now that’s one thing I didn’t expect. Let’s hope it’s not a downpour.”

  The entrance to the museum portico was blocked by turnstiles.
Alex approached someone checking tickets.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for a researcher called Marek Borevsek.”

  The man didn’t look up from his task.

  “Could you tell me where I might find…?”

  Still no response.

  Alex spotted Vanessa talking to a vendor selling bottled drinks and ice creams.

  She beckoned him over. “The offices are underneath apparently. There’s an admin entrance at the end.” She pointed to the third opening on their right.

  They walked past the second entrance, through which they saw a dirty grey interior and concrete stairs. The next entrance was more in keeping with the building, and at the top of the steps, through an open door, was a full-body turnstile like the ones Alex had seen at Paris metro stations. On the far side a security man sat at a podium.

  “I’m here to see Marek Borevsek,” Alex said slowly through the battleship-grey bars. “He’s a research fellow here.”

  A cigarette in the man’s mouth made him squint as he looked first at Alex and then longer, approvingly, at Vanessa.

  “Marek Borevsek?” Alex repeated.

  The man looked down, presumably to a register below the level of the desk. He looked back up and, in passable English, said. “He’s not here.”

  Alex’s eyes widened. He looked at Vanessa.

  “What, not here at all?” she asked.

  The security man squinted at her. “No. Not here… today. He work at hospital.”

  Alex passed the map through the bars. “Could you show us where, please?”

  “Research at hospital. Here.” With a red pen, the security man put a cross. Then he handed them a slip of paper. “Cleopatra Hospital,” he said, and pointed to Arabic writing.

  They thanked him, exited the museum grounds and immediately caught a taxi.

  The hospital was beyond the Victoria Hotel and took forty minutes in the cab. During the ride, the rain briefly became heavier and then abruptly stopped. The driver had spoken little English but had immediately understood the slip of paper from the security man. As he left them outside the hospital, Alex shook his head in wonderment. “That was cheaper than the first taxi and more than twice the distance!”