The Keeper of the Dead advanced and spoke to the scribe, who sat, fingers to his lips, before jumping to his feet and hurrying over to a casket decorated with the Ankh and Sa signs. He lifted out a roll of papyrus, brought it back to the table, undid the bundle and began to search. At last he nodded triumphantly, tapped the sheet of papyrus with his finger and beckoned Amerotke to follow him down one of the many tunnels stretching off from the chamber. With the scribe hurrying before him holding a flickering torch, Amerotke truly felt he was in the Land of the Dead. The tunnel was needle-thin, the walls on either side stacked high with the dead, locked in caskets or wrapped in linen cloths, all pushed into their man-made chambers. The air was musty, reeking of corruption, the staleness lightened by the sweetness of juniper oil and resin as well as the ever-pervasive harsh odour of natron.
Eventually the guide stopped in front of a ledge. He picked up a small ladder pushed against the wall and climbed up to peer at the number carved on the side.
‘Yes,’ he declared, taking back the torch, which he had given to Amerotke. ‘This is the woman known as Kliya. She was embalmed in the wabet and put into a casket in the Nefet Per, the House of Beauty, three seasons ago.’
‘Take her out,’ Amerotke ordered.
A short argument followed, but Amerotke had his way. They had to leave the tunnel so a low-slung sledge on wheels could be brought. The casket was lowered and taken back to the entrance chamber. The officials muttered about impurity and pollution. Amerotke’s guards no longer relished their duties, and grumbled amongst themselves. Amerotke snapped at them to keep quiet, and walked back to the doorway to catch the breeze and dab the sweat from his neck.
‘Master, what are you doing?’ Shufoy asked. ‘This is a holy place!’
‘Is it?’ Amerotke asked. He stared out across the empty courtyard. If the truth be known, he hated such places with their dusty rituals, mumbling priests and the costly, unholy trade in artefacts for the dead. His visit evoked memories of the burial of his own dear brother. Amerotke would never forget that. He wasn’t a heretic, he believed that when the soul left the body it did have a life of its own, but the corpse was nothing more than the cracked, empty shell of a nut. He cleared his mind of such thoughts and concentrated on the problem vexing him at the Temple of Isis. The Scribe of the Dead had had no record of this woman, yet her corpse was here in the Isis mausoleum. A vague suspicion pricked at Amerotke as he recalled his conversations with Lord Impuki and Lady Thena.
‘Master?’
‘Shufoy.’ Amerotke beckoned his servant closer. ‘Will you help me?’
‘What with, Master?’
Amerotke leaned down and whispered. Shufoy gazed back in shock, but nodded in agreement.
‘Good.’ Amerotke smiled and turned back, clapping his hands. ‘I am Chief Judge Amerotke, the Divine One’s own mouthpiece in the Hall of Two Truths. What I do is blessed by the gods, for the good fortune of the Divine House and the Kingdom of Two Lands. This is what will happen.’ He pointed at the casket resting on the sledge. ‘The body inside belongs to a woman with no relatives or family. I intend to open it.’
Amerotke’s words were greeted with shock, accusations of blasphemy and condemnation. The judge declared he would take full responsibility, and once he had shouted them down, he made everyone take an oath of silence. No report would be issued to the Temple of Isis until Amerotke had reported his findings to the Divine House.
A short while later, Amerotke, standing on one side of the table with Shufoy on the other, broke the seals of the casket.
‘Notice,’ he whispered, ‘how fine this casket is, fashioned out of cedar wood.’ He pointed at the gold decorations along the side, wiping away the dust. At last he lifted the lid. The smell was still fragrant from the floral garlands, posies and bouquets inside. Amerotke’s interest deepened. Kliya had been an old woman, one of the poor of Thebes, yet her mummified face had been covered by a beautiful gold-lined mask fashioned out of linen and papyrus. The bandages, despite the dark resin which coated them, were also of the finest type, usually reserved to wrap the statues and sacred objects of the temple. Amerotke didn’t disturb the mask but cut at the linen folds. This was harder than he had expected because the resin had hardened the bandages, turning them into a blackened sheet. As he cut, Amerotke came across the amulets and sacred stones placed there. The corpse had also been coloured with yellow ochre, again usually reserved for the wealthy.
‘Master, are you sure we should be doing this?’
‘I’ll answer to the gods.’ Amerotke lifted his head and wiped away the sweat with the back of his hand. ‘We are not going to strip the whole corpse, just the chest.’
Assisted by Shufoy, Amerotke cut away a square of the resin-stained cloth. The deeper he dug, the softer it became, evidence of the care the embalmers must have taken with this old woman’s corpse. At last the chest area was cleared, and the small chamber they had taken over stank with the funeral oils and spices, the dust from the coffer floating in the air. They had reached the corpse itself. At first Shufoy couldn’t believe his eyes. Amerotke smiled to himself as he examined the red cuts running down the neck and the way the left arm had been severed totally from the body.
‘What caused this?’ Shufoy asked. ‘I know the embalmer’s art, cuts down the chest and in the left side, but this woman, her chest has been gouged. Look, Master, the left arm is almost severed at the shoulder.’
‘I’ve seen enough.’ Amerotke picked up the pieces of hardened linen he had cut away and started to place them back as expertly as he could. Once he had finished, he left the chamber and brought back a narrow sheet of linen, in which he re-wrapped the corpse. Then, helped by Shufoy, he replaced it in the casket, closing the lid and demanding the Keeper of the Dead reseal it.
‘Are you finished now?’ the official asked, his fat face soaked in sweat.
‘I am,’ Amerotke smiled, ‘but I have one further request.’
The man groaned audibly. ‘My lord, you have caused enough confusion.’
‘No, no.’ Amerotke tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I want to visit another tomb. General Suten’s …’
‘It is being prepared,’ the man conceded. ‘But the period of mourning isn’t yet over, and his corpse still lies in the House of Beauty in the Temple of Isis.’
Amerotke had expected this, but once he had washed his hands and face and anointed himself with oil, he demanded to be taken to General Suten’s tomb anyway. They went back out into the sunlight, and the guards, relieved to be out in the fresh air, chatted amongst themselves, trying to draw Shufoy into conversation about what had happened. The dwarf remained puzzled. The old woman’s corpse had been honourably treated, but what kind of death had she suffered to have her chest so damaged, and her arm almost hewn off?
They left the mausoleum, following the narrow pathway to the other side of the Necropolis, where the more wealthy and powerful had their Houses of a Million Years. General Suten’s tomb lay just within the Valley of the Nobles and was guarded by two priests wearing Anubis masks who escorted them through a gate and across a small courtyard. Just within the gateway a proclamation had been carved on the wall:
The Great Ones have forgiven and purified him,
He has confessed his sins and they are no more
Homage to thee, oh Osiris,
He who hears all our breaths,
He has washed away his sins,
He has justified his mouth,
So in the lands of eternity he will speak with true voice.
The priests were curious as to why Amerotke was visiting the tomb. The general’s death had provoked a great deal of interest amongst the workmen putting the finishing touches to this final resting place. Amerotke simply shrugged and said he wished to pay his last respects. He stopped outside the entrance chamber to look at the precious caskets and furniture waiting to be taken in. Once inside the tomb he became deeply interested in the frescoes and paintings on the walls. Some of them depicted Gene
ral Suten’s soul being weighed on the Scales of Truth. He noticed, with amusement, how the general was portrayed in full dress armour as if he was ready to fight the demons who thronged about, the Great Strider, the Swallower of Shades, the Breaker of Bones and the Eater of Blood. Amerotke went deeper into the tomb to examine the exquisitely painted frescoes on the small chapel wall glorifying scenes from General Suten’s life: the General being received by Pharoah; being decorated with golden collars of honour; out hunting antelope or fishing on his punt; or armed with a boomerang and accompanied by his dogs, stalking water birds along the banks of the Nile. Amerotke studied these paintings carefully and asked when they had been finished.
‘Only a short while ago,’ one of the priests replied.
Amerotke nodded and moved to a further set of scenes depicting the lives of General Suten’s ancestors. One painting in particular caught his attention, Suten’s grandfather armed with scrolls. The judge became lost in thought.
‘Master?’ Shufoy whispered. ‘What is the mystery?’
Amerotke glanced down at him. ‘Mist, Shufoy?’ he replied, playing on the words. ‘I think the mist is beginning to clear!’
‘I wonder,’ Shufoy grinned up at his master, ‘I wonder what the Divine One will make of her Chief Judge opening tombs? Do you know,’ he added absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve studied the list of tomb robberies. Do you realise that the tomb of one of your old enemies, Grand Vizier Rahimere, was robbed?’
‘Yes, it was,’ replied Amerotke, equally distracted.
‘Strange,’ Shufoy mused. ‘If you look at the dates, that robbery truly disturbed the Divine House.’
UTCHATI: ancient Egyptian, ‘judgement’
CHAPTER 11
Nadif, standard-bearer in the Medjay, was becoming more confused by the hour. He prided himself on his powers of observation and logic. When he had served in the army he had always been praised for his astuteness. He recalled how his superiors had whispered that he should, perhaps, have trained to be a scribe. He believed that life should reflect Nature and the Nile. The Great River flowed, the seasons changed. If harmony was shattered, if the truth was twisted, if evil was done and wickedness perpetrated then it was simply a matter of clearing up the mess and restoring Ma’at. Nadif always tried to speak with true voice; he would often remind himself, and his wife, that when he appeared before the Divine Osiris he would be able to make a full confession: ‘I have not stolen someone’s goods, I have not spoken with evil voice …’ His wife always nodded and asked him if he would like more pottage or his beer jug filled.
Nadif prided himself on his own peace, but now he was very perplexed. The day was hot and he was unable to go on patrol because he had to sit in council in the stuffy lower room of the sandstone-built Medjay headquarters, just within the Beautiful Gate to the west of Thebes. Nadif recalled the old adage: ‘Do not show your temper, or take out your anger on subordinates, this is a sign of weakness.’ In truth he felt like screaming his puzzlement as he gazed round his corps of assistants, a mixture of fresh-faced recruits and grizzled veterans. He was deeply disconcerted at what he had found at General Suten’s house, and he still had to resolve the business of the snake seller. Now these men who were supposed to be helping him were only making matters worse. If only his baboon was not ill, he’d be more help than these so-called guardians of Pharoah’s laws.
‘Let me understand this clearly.’ Nadif pointed to a one-eyed veteran, a former spearman from the Seth regiment who had lost his eye whilst hunting wild boars out along the marshes. ‘You are telling me that a man fitting Heby’s description was seen in the Potters’ Quarter to the south of the city?’
‘That’s what I was told,’ the fellow retorted. ‘As clear as I can see you now!’ The veteran grinned, winking his one good eye.
‘This is not amusing.’
‘Of course not, sir.’ The veteran cleared his throat. ‘According to my information, he was dressed quite well in cloak and sandal boots. What caught my informant’s gaze was the sword he carried; he also seemed to have considerable wealth.’
Nadif could only raise his hand in agreement and sigh noisily. What the veteran said fitted with what he had learnt from Chief Scribe Menna, who’d reported that Heby had stolen clothes, a weapon and jewellery.
‘More importantly,’ one of the fresh-faced recruits, eager to prove himself, spoke up, ‘there are rumours that Heby was seen at the Fifth Mooring Place along the Nile.’
‘It would seem,’ Nadif’s scribe said, ‘that he attacked Chief Scribe Menna, tied him up, robbed the house and escaped over the wall, killing that guard. It wouldn’t have been hard,’ he added. ‘From what you have told us, sir, his guards were lazy oxen. Heby reached the Nile, creeping along the undergrowth next to the bank. In his haste he dropped things. Nothing,’ the scribe smiled tactfully, ‘escapes the sharp-eyed gaze of Nadif. He must have reached the Fifth Mooring Place, crossed the Nile and tried to raise enough wealth by selling what he had stolen.’
Nadif could only agree. With the small food tables before him, he felt as if he was trapped in this chamber. He wanted to rise, kick them all aside and go on patrol, swinging his stick and marching like he used to when the regiment was going to war. He thanked his officers, dismissed them, then leaned back so that the wall could cool his sweating skin. He closed his eyes and recalled that funeral party passing, the knife he had found, the guard sprawled in the undergrowth, his flesh cold as marble, the blood all congealing. Then there were his questions to the fishing folk and ferrymen along the river. Where was Heby going? Why did he flee? Chief Scribe Menna claimed they could mount a powerful defence, but was the valet looking for something else to prove his innocence? Nadif slipped into a reverie, coming sharply awake as his nephew led in a stranger. The standard-bearer glowered. He regarded the boy, with his moon-like face and slack lips, as simple-minded, yet surely he knew when to knock?
‘Great uncle.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir,’ the nephew apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, sir, but great uncle, I have brought Apep.’
Nadif waved to the table opposite. The emaciated, yellow-skinned man squatted down, chomping his toothless gums, though his frailty did not stop him from grasping a piece of quail and popping it into his mouth.
‘Help yourself!’ Nadif leaned across and filled an ale jug while he studied his visitor. The man was garbed in a shabby leather gown, he had tattoos along his forearms and a small carved head of Meretseger on a piece of cord around his neck.
‘Why do you call yourself Apep?’
‘Snake men always do. They take the name of this god or that god. I am attracted by the idea of being protected by the Great Snake.’
‘Horned vipers?’ Nadif asked. ‘What do you know about them?’
Apep whistled through his lips. ‘Nasty, crawling things, vicious and venomous, that’s the one snake you avoid. You go down to the snake charmers of Thebes and ask them to play their tricks with a horned viper, they will all refuse. You see, sir,’ Apep warmed to his theme, ‘take the cobra or the python. Its fangs can be drawn, its poison drained, you can make them sleepy by giving them a nest of mice to eat. It’s easy to confuse the crowd. A grass snake can look like an adder, but a horned viper is a horned viper!’
‘Have you ever sold them?’ Nadif asked, wishing that his nephew, sitting opposite him, would keep his mouth closed and stop gaping.
‘Sold one?’ Apep drained the beer jug and put it out for more. ‘If I saw a horned viper I would kill it. They are responsible for more deaths out in the Red Lands than a pack of lions.’
‘Out in the Red Lands?’ Nadif queried. ‘Can’t you find them in the valleys across the river?’
‘Oh, you might find the occasional one. But mostly they’re out in the Red Lands; look for some lonely oasis where there is some water, but not enough. Next to it, perhaps,’ Apep moved his hand, ‘a nice rocky gully with plenty of shale and loose boulders, some grass, some bushes, enough water
and shrubs to attract the creatures in, rodents, perhaps the occasional nesting bird, and if they’re really lucky, a deer or a wounded quail. That’s where you’ll find the horned vipers!’
‘Do they nest together?’
‘Small groups.’
‘So you wouldn’t be able to buy horned vipers in Thebes?’
‘You might, but you would wonder why their owners had them in the first place. There again, in Thebes you can buy anything, can’t you, officer? I mean, from a piece of ivory,’ he lowered his voice, ‘to a jewelled pectoral from a royal tomb.’
‘I wouldn’t say that in the marketplace,’ Nadif warned. ‘Let’s go back to the horned vipers: you are sure about what you say?’
Apep nodded and, realising that the interview was drawing to an end, stuffed more roast quail into his mouth. Nadif gave him a deben of copper and some flat bread with cooked meat on top and told the man to finish his meal outside.
‘What is it, great uncle?’ asked his nephew when Apep had gone.
‘You heard about Heby?’ Nadif replied. ‘He may have panicked or he might have fled to look for something. But come, nephew, I gave my word to my sister that you will become a fully trained scout in the Medjay. It’s time I took your training in hand.’
Nadif quickly dressed, putting on his chain of office and a striped black and gold headdress over his shaven head. He donned a thick quilted kilt and sandal boots and looped a war belt across his shoulder. He took his staff, inspected his nephew, pronounced himself satisfied and left the police station, grabbing a parasol from one of his assistants in the courtyard. He told his nephew to do something useful and hold it for him as they went out on to the busy thoroughfare leading down to the Beautiful Gate. He deliberately walked quickly so that his nephew wouldn’t ask questions, and all the time he studied the faces he passed, the fruit sellers, tinkers and pedlars, the scorpion and lizard men who scampered up the alleyways as quickly as the creatures after which they were named. Nadif knew all their petty tricks and deceptions. He paused to shout at Silver-Fingers, a sneak thief who liked to lift the pouches and purses from ladies and merchants; the man promptly disappeared into the dark recesses of a beer shop.
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