Looking around the kitchen, Satet found a basket with a lid. “No, I’m not going to stay. You may have wanted to seek your fortune in the great city, but I’m the one who’s gotten a place with a fine nobleman.” Satet cocked her ear in Hunero’s direction. “I always said Bay was lazy. Make him wake up and fetch fresh fuel for that oven. I’ll come back tomorrow and help you clean this mess. And get rid of these cursed flies!”
Turning her back on Hunero and her brother-in-law, Satet bustled into the living chamber. She filled the basket with two shifts, a pair of hardly used sandals, a faience eye-paint pot, and a wooden comb with long teeth, the top of which had been carved in the shape of a gazelle. After placing the lid on the basket, Satet picked up her lamp and went to the door.
Extinguishing the light, she tossed a comment over her shoulder. “I won’t take morning meal with you tomorrow.Lady Bener’s cooks will fix me a fine one before I come to see you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Satet hefted the basket on her hip, stepped outside, and shut the door behind her. Night had come, but darkness wasn’t complete, and lamplight glimmered from windows up and down the street. Humming a feast song, she began the walk back to Lord Meren’s house.
Chapter 11
Once he’d left the palace, Meren had gone home, where Abu and Kysen met him. They, along with the watchman Min, spent the remainder of the day and the hours since nightfall assessing what details were known of Mugallu’s death and the other killings. Min had brought two white feathers with him. They lay in a bronze tray on top of a chest, their white purity spoiled by stains that had once been red. One was from the body of the farmer, the other from the tavern woman. Min had filched the one on the farmer’s body. When he’d heard of the tavern woman, he’d gone to the village and retrieved the second feather.
Meren had decided to call these ugly crimes the heart thefts. It was a term they could use openly without having to name victims or refer to the butchery enacted upon the bodies. If citizens discovered the exact nature of these murders, fear would spark an inferno of violence against anyone perceived as a threat—petty thieves, the addlewitted, the cantankerous, the mean, even some helpless foreign slave.
Reviewing the fool Sokar’s notes and reports for the last six months had taken a long time. Abu and Kysen were still working, with Min, who could not read, serving as interpreter of events and decipherer of Sokar’s euphemisms. Meren had just finished reading the reports on Mugallu’s death and writing his own account. Periodically the silence that prevailed was broken when one of them asked Min a question.
Meren felt groggy from so much writing and sitting.
He should have gotten up an hour ago, but Bener had prevented him. She had invaded the office with an entourage of servants bearing food and drink. As she refused to leave until they ate, Meren had realized how limited his choices were. After the meal his daughter sent the servants away—and remained. He’d argued with her previously about how unsuitable it was for her to concern herself with his affairs, but weariness and a respect for Bener’s intelligent heart had prevented him from trying to get rid of her tonight. So she stayed, read reports, and eased the burden of the work.
Bener shifted her position on a stool and murmured a question to Min. “What is this note? There is no explanation other than the phrase ‘no settlement in the matter of the two hyenas’ and a date two months ago.”
“Lady, Sokar uses the—the phrase to refer to a house boundary dispute between the temple trader Penne and the overseer of the magazine of Prince Rahotep. They have been arguing about it for many years. Their fathers quarreled over the same boundary, as did their grandfathers. Sokar said their sons will continue the custom because the two families produce nothing but weakwitted laggards who haven’t the sense to stop wasting means and time on such a useless quarrel.”
“I remember,” Meren said. “There has been a case in the vizier’s court on the same dispute for generations. By the patience of Amun, I wish the worst troubles I had were like that.”
Handing his account of Mugallu’s death to Bener, Meren rose, wincing at the stiffness in his knees and ankles. He hadn’t been able to go to the royal practice field, or even to drive his chariot in the desert, lately. He began to walk about the room to ease his discomfort. There were similar offices in his mansions in Bubastis and Heliopolis in the delta, at Thebes, and in his country estate near Abydos. Yet he preferred this one.
It was larger than the others, running almost the length of the reception and central halls above which it was built. The walls were plastered, painted pale blue, and decorated with a simple frieze of reed bundles at the top and bottom. The windows set high in the walls bore grilles of gilded wood. The six slender columns set in two rows had been carved in the shape of tall green lotus plants, the petals of which spread out at the top, as if reaching for the sun. The stems of the flowers had been painted with alternating bands of gold and blue at the base and just beneath the petals. As had been intended, the decoration of the room imitated a reflection pool dotted with lotus plants and surrounded by the sundrenched blue of the sky.
Only in the last few years had he been able to enjoy his Memphis office this way. He and his wife had shared too many private moments here. After she died, he hadn’t been able to remain in this chamber for long, because Sit-Hathor had filled it with gifts to him. Leaving the master’s dais, Meren went to a long cabinet set against the wall. There rested the last of Sit-Hathor’s gifts, an alabaster lamp carved in the shape of a chalice cup sitting on an open, rectangular base.
When not in use, the lamp appeared a simple object of the valuable, cream-colored stone. When lit, a scene appeared as if by magic, illuminated by the gold flicker of the oil and floating wick. A close-fitting alabaster lining had been affixed within the chalice bowl. It was on the outer surface of the lining that the scene had been painted. Meren studied the glowing chalice, upon which he could see an image of himself and Sit-Hathor. He was sitting in his ebony chair with the legs carved to imitate a leopard’s and claws fashioned of ivory. Sit-Hathor stood before him, smiling and offering him a lotus flower. This pose had been a private joke, for Sit-Hathor had been a woman more likely to pelt his face with the blossom than offer it meekly.
It was growing late. The office was illuminated by a dozen alabaster lamps, but reading in such light wearied the eyes. The strain worked against alertness, and everyone had to be alert with an unknown killer abroad in Memphis. Meren turned to face the room. His fingers traced the fluted shape of the chalice lamp as he began.
“The hour grows late. We should review and then take our rest. Kysen, you said Prince Mugallu’s killer also dispatched a slave and the sentry posted at the garden.”
“Aye, Father. I surveyed the places where the bodies lay, but the Hittites had swarmed all over. If the criminal or creature left any signs, they’re gone. But the guard and the slave were killed with a simple knife in the back.”
“So this evil one reserves the ax and the—whatever made those rows of slices on the throat and face—for special victims.”
Abu looked up at him, startled. Kysen nodded without surprise while Min gripped an amulet of protection he wore as a necklace. Meren glanced at his daughter, but Bener didn’t seem disturbed. She was rolling up a papyrus and inserting it in a leather document case.
Without looking up, she said, “If they were killed by the same evil one, man or demon.”
Everyone looked at her. She rolled her eyes and gave an impatient sigh.
“Which is the greater amazement? That I had the wits to consider the possibility, or that I had the temerity to say it?”
“Neither, daughter,” said Meren.
He frowned at her, which failed to evoke anything but a little smile. Thrusting his hands behind his back, Meren abandoned his position beside the lamp and walked a circuit that took him down the rows of columns and back.
“Pharaoh has alerted the royal bodyguard, the infantry companies stationed in the area
, the naval patrols, the city police, the desert patrols. But no one knows what to look for, or whom.”
“General Labarnas tried to send a messenger after I left,” Kysen said. “The men I set to watch the house stopped him and sent him back. His message wasn’t written, so we don’t know what Labarnas wants to say to the king of the Hittites.”
On the return leg of his circuit of the office, Meren gave a bitter laugh. “No words of praise, I’ll wager.” He stopped between the first pair of columns, unclasped his hands, and began toying with the thick hinged bracelet that covered the Aten scar on his wrist. “Very well, let us review what we’ve learned.”
“We know of at least three heart thefts,” Kysen said. “There was the farmer ten days ago, the one Sokar listed as the death of a farmer, ‘not of the city,’ with no other description.” He said this last with contempt. “Then there was the—what was she, Min?”
“A tavern woman, lord.”
“Yes, Anat, the tavern woman in that western village.”
“And her cat,” Bener said.
“And the cat,” Kysen replied. “And Tcha’s friend Pawah, but we only have Tcha to tell us what he saw. His veracity isn’t the stuff of which great men write advice for their sons.” Kysen glanced at Meren. “Has he been with you?”
“No. I thought he went with you,” Meren said. They stared at each other.
Abu spoke up. “I last saw him in the alley where we found Prince Mugallu.”
No one said anything for a while. Then Meren turned to Abu. “Send someone to look for him when we’re finished.”
“I have to go to Ese’s,” Kysen said. “I’ll look for him there. Most likely he has burrowed under a rubbish heap somewhere to hide from danger, and from us.”
Bener shut the lid on the document case she’d been using. “If you find him, don’t let him in this house. The servants had to burn incense for hours to get rid of the stench.” Setting the case aside, she said, “Three heart thefts? But what of those two entries in Sokar’s reports of several weeks ago?”
“We don’t know that those were heart thefts,” Kysen said. “Min wasn’t present when they were discovered.”
“But Sokar described them as he did the others. He wrote ‘a death’ and ‘not of the city,’ or ‘a wretched slave.’ I’ve looked at most of his reports, and he seldom becomes so sparing of words or so vague unless there’s something he wants to avoid.”
When Kysen’s brow furrowed, and he began to rock back and forth on his heels, Meren knew it was time to interrupt.
“It may be nothing, but I want to be sure. Min will ask the watchmen involved about these early entries.”
Min answered hastily as Bener opened her lips. “Yes, lord.”
Before either of his children could pursue their disagreement, Meren continued. “Returning to what we know of these killings. All began with a disabling blow, followed by a slice to the throat by some weapon, or claws.” He set his back against a column, folded his arms, and stared at the floor while he thought for a moment. “The cuts are too clean.”
“What do you mean?” Kysen asked.
Meren looked up at him. “You’ve seen the gashes left by a lion’s claws, or a leopard’s. The edges aren’t nearly as clean. Mugallu’s throat looked like someone had sliced it with a freshly sharpened butcher’s knife.”
“Perhaps the evil one has some strange weapon,” Kysen replied. “A knife with several blades.”
Bener walked over to Meren and spoke quietly. “The claws of Eater of Souls, are they not as sharp as the gods demand? If the Devouress eats the body of the dead, heart and bones and tendons, her claws would have to be sharper and harder than any metal.”
Again no one spoke. Min clutched his amulet. Kysen and Abu exchanged uneasy looks while Meren stared at Bener.
“By the gods, daughter. The image you devise makes my bones cold.”
Eyes large with surprise, Bener said, “All I do is think of the sensible consequences of what I know to be true.”
“But your imagination,” Meren replied. “Your heart is clever, but it’s also filled with colorful vision.” He was surprised when Bener’s eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.
“Thank you, Father.” Bener cleared her throat. “What other things do we know?”
Knowing Bener would be furious with herself if she succumbed to tears, Meren walked over to Kysen, listing items as he went. “All the killings are done at night. All the dead are humble except for Mugallu. None except the Hittite’s slave and sentry were linked to any of the others.”
“And all the killings except that of the tavern woman have taken place in the dock district, which the people call the Caverns, and the foreign enclaves nearby,” Kysen added. “But the woman worked in the area, and lived in the village. I suppose the demon—or the man— found her in the Caverns and followed her home.”
“And if the killer is mortal, we should consider that the evil one may live near or frequent these places,” Meren said.
Abu came over and handed Kysen a flat sheet of papyrus. Kysen took it and glanced at it. “Yes. I found a single leather sandal imprint. There were others similar to this one at the prince’s house, but none was an exact duplicate.”
“And the Hittites had tramped all over the areas where the bodies were found,” Abu said.
Bener came over to the group. “I’ve been thinking.”
All three of them turned to look at her, but she failed to notice.
“Do demons wear leather sandals?” she asked. “Would Eater of Souls wear them?”
“I’ve never seen the Devouress drawn wearing sandals or any footwear in any of the sacred books,” Kysen said.
Abu said, “Nor I.”
Another uneasy silence fell. A loud crack made Bener jump and the men touch the daggers in their belts. They relaxed when Min knelt and picked up his stone amulet from the floor. His face turning the color of red jasper, he muttered an apology.
Meren fought back irritation at his own lack of composure. “This is a senseless point. Demons do not wear clothing, and anyway, the sandal print is unlikely to be that of the evildoer.” He stalked away from the group, stopped at a column, and whirled around to face them. His body felt as tightly drawn as a hunting bow.
“If Eater of Souls prowls among us… that would be a matter for pharaoh. The golden one is the intermediary between his people and the gods. He causes the earth to continue in its endless cycles of birth, death, and rebirth, Harvest, Inundation, Drought, and Harvest again. Only pharaoh has the power to intercede with the gods. He will ask Osiris, ruler of the netherworld, to summon Eater of Souls back to the land of the dead. My hope is that the Devouress rumors are false. After all, only the hearts of the dead are missing, and I don’t think Eater of Souls would refrain from devouring her entire… meal.”
Meren didn’t like feeling powerless. He went on, for images of what a devouring must look like threatened to enter his heart. “We will proceed as if the evil one is mortal until we know differently.”
“And take magical precautions,” Kysen said.
“We’ll protect ourselves,” Meren said. “Now, what kinds of men use axes?”
“Soldiers,” Bener said.
Kysen gave her an irritated look. “Almost all men know how to use an ax.”
“Priests?” Bener retorted.
“Those who perform sacrifices, Mistress Know-All. And any priest who is also a noble.”
Bener held her forefinger up in front of Kysen’s face and said, “If you would allow your heart time to consider, you’d realize that carpenters, butchers, and cooks use hand axes constantly and thus possess skill with them.”
Brother and sister took up stances facing each other. Their gazes met and held.
“I do not allow my heart to consider things that are plain to all but you,” Kysen said.
Bener gave a little snort of contempt. “Plain? What is plain is that you don’t like the notion because you didn’t produce it
, and I did.”
“You would have us question every joiner, carpenter, shipwright, and wood gatherer in the city,” Kysen said as he moved closer to his sister so that they were almost nose to nose. “Who would like such a notion?”
“You deliberately misunderstand my words.”
“Enough!” Meren snapped. “We grow too weary. We’ll begin again in the morning. Abu, take Min to the barracks and give him a bed.” When the two were gone, Meren turned a scowl on his son and daughter. “I’ll thank you both to remember your rank and dignity before others. I cannot understand how you could quarrel like a couple of baboons in the presence of my aide and a watchman. Kysen, you have yet to make that visit of which you spoke, and Bener, you have a great household to manage. Go away.”
Bener whispered an apology before hurrying out of the room. Kysen left without a word, revealing by his expression that he knew better than to make excuses. When he was alone, Meren went back to his chair and slouched into it. His mood, already dim, had been soured by his children’s petty bickering in the face of butchery and danger.
Now he couldn’t go to bed. He would only lie awake while his irritation festered. Slumping down in his chair until his head rested on the back, Meren glanced to his side and saw a sheet of papyrus laid out on the small table next to him. Flat, polished stones held the curled sheet open. It was a description of Mugallu’s body. His gaze picked up the words “white feather,” and he immediately wondered what kind of feathers had been used, and why.
Then he realized where Bener had gotten her reasoning ability. A habit learned from her father, perhaps inherited along with her clever heart? He’d never given a thought to this—that his daughters claimed from him virtues and faults his father had passed down to him. And his mother. Without knowing it, he’d assumed and wished them to be images of Sit-Hathor. But there had been times when he’d noticed one or the other of his daughters give him a brief, sharp look. He’d never bothered to interpret that look, yet it had remained in his memory.
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