by Mike Ashley
“Forgive me, Nodjmet, but I have learned that in order to uncover the truth it is sometimes necessary to ask blunt questions. It is clear you hold a strong dislike for Hebeney. Is it because you suspect her of being too familiar with your husband?”
Nodjmet laughed. “I hate her because she is a vile woman. She was Khu’s mistress, but one would have thought he had married her to hear her speak. He who was high born, and she the ignorant daughter of a potter.”
I was not certain whether she had answered my query or not. “You mentioned Ti was responsible for your husband’s taking Khu’s lands?”
“That’s right. Many here at the oasis ask Amun to decide legal disputes during the sacred processions. The pronouncements of the god are accepted as binding and thus doing so is faster and less expensive than litigation. No one has ever seemed to notice that whenever Wosret was involved the decision always went his way. Disputed leases, misplaced shipments, ambiguous contracts . . . when asked whose position on the matter was correct, the oracle always chose my husband’s.”
“You believe he and Ti had, let us say, an arrangement?”
“Not only that, I am convinced Ti became impatient waiting for his reward and decided to fulfill Amun’s prediction.”
After she had broken off our conversation and left me sitting there, I considered the perplexing situation.
A philosopher might well have pondered whether a priest who carries out his god’s oracle could rightly be accused of murder since the death has already been divinely ordained. Luckily, I am merely a traveller and student of history and so was content to mull over the problem of how to prove a priest guilty of such an act.
I am not so credulous as to have simply accepted Nodjmet’s statement that Ti had committed the crime, although I suppose my realization that she was Greek, a lonely stranger in this desert wilderness, did commend her point of view to me.
The difficulty, as I saw it, was not that the victim had seemingly been killed by imperceptible means as that the allege murderer could simply not venture out, walk unnoticed through a house full of servants, kill someone without a sound and then leave undetected.
There had to be an accomplice involved.
Unless one was prepared to believe that Amun himself had struck Wosret dead in order to enrich his temple, that accomplice had to be human.
Perhaps Amun had decided to take my side against his venal priest, because after I left the bench and turned down a narrow path shaded by palms, I was accosted by the young cook whose morals and conduct Nodjmet had so recently been disparaging.
“Please, sir, I must speak. I have been looking for you everywhere.” Hebeney’s Greek was barely intelligible, but given her position in life it was surprising she spoke it at all.
“You may tell me what you have to say while we walk back to the house. I cannot pause, I fear, for I am attending to some urgent business on behalf of your mistress.”
Hebeney fell into step beside me. She was attractive in the manner of certain primitive ebony carvings I have seen which, I am told, originate beyond the Nile’s upper reaches.
“My mistress? She’s told you I killed Wosret, I wager! But she is the murderer, sir. I had hoped to find you before she could accuse me!”
Despite my hurry, this outburst brought me to a halt. “Nodjmet didn’t accuse you of killing her husband. Why would she? And why do you say your mistress is the culprit?”
“I’m sure she put me into your mind, which is as good as saying I did it,” Hebeney replied, making me wonder if she had been eavesdropping behind the shrubbery. “Nodjmet is convinced her husband was unfaithful with me, because she is such a sickly thing. I’m certain you understand what I mean by that, sir. But I must tell you, ever since I arrived here I have observed her plotting his death.”
I asked what proof she had of this remarkable statement.
“The proof of my eyes and ears, sir. Nodjmet used to come out to the kitchen and peer into the pots on the brazier and ask what sauces had the strongest flavours and couldn’t they conceal the bitterness of this or that noxious plant or some poison. She claimed she was afraid an enemy might try to poison Wosret since he was a powerful man. But I know she had her own reasons.”
Immediately it occurred to me that given the women’s obvious mutual dislike, Hebeney might have seen her master’s death as providing a way to strike back at her mistress. Especially since she was unlikely to remain employed by the wronged wife.
Remembering what Nodjmet had said concerning Khu, I asked her if she came to work for Wosret after her former master lost his lands.
She confirmed this was so. “Khu lost not only his lands but also his life, for shortly after the oracle ruled against him his body was discovered in an irrigation canal. Or at least, those parts the crocodiles had left. I for one believe he willingly embraced death, for he despaired . . .” Her voice trailed off and she lowered her eyelids for an instant.
“You must have been grateful to Wosret for taking you in.”
“Not so grateful as to be used by him, sir, if that is what you are thinking.”
Was she telling the truth? If she had considered herself, in her simple way, to be Khu’s wife, then perhaps she felt hatred rather than gratitude towards Wosret. If so, her agreeing to serve in his household might well have been to find an opportunity to avenge Khu.
Supposing that to be true, then her only purpose in approaching me must have been to confuse matters. Did she suppose I would not suspect her merely because she had brought herself to my attention?
We had stopped where a gap in the palm trees revealed a wide canal. My eye was caught by an elongated shape floating in the water. From a distance, I wasn’t certain what it was and the sturdy fence running along its bank prevented any nearer approach.
Perhaps it was just as well. This is the problem when you investigate a situation more closely.
Sometimes you discover a log, other times a crocodile.
When I returned to Wosret’s house I retired to the roof, which serves Egyptians more as a living space than a shelter, there being no rain to speak of in that arid land.
From below came the noise of the household, people moving about, talking, the sound of chests being shifted. There were preparations to be made. All around me, the palm fronds of Sekhet-am formed the green waves of a far-reaching sea.
Gazing out over it, a doubt crept into my thoughts. Did a god need an accomplice to fulfill a prophecy?
There was no hint of the cooling breeze which invariably left on the exposed skin a gritty residue, a reminder of the surrounding desert. This afternoon, the rooftop merely seemed to be palpably closer to the fiery orb of the sun.
I decided no one else would come to me with accusations about others, so I descended and went to question the glassmaker.
Simut was pulling another perfume bottle from the oven as I entered his workshop. He rolled the tiny artefact back and forth on the stone at his feet, then propped the rod holding it against the bench to allow the glass to cool. When I expressed my desire to speak with him, he remained standing by the fire, folding his arms on his chest.
“Hebeney sent you, didn’t she?” His voice was little more than a dry wheezing, a sound one might expect to issue from the desiccated lips of a mummy.
He must have noted my surprise. “It is the constant, scorching wind from the oven,” he explained. “It forces the breath back into the throat. We glassmakers are generally as short-lived as many of our fragile creations.”
“Hebeney has spoken to you since Wosret’s death?”
“Yes. But let me make it plain, sir, whatever you should hear, it was the mistress who approached me. I did not pursue her,” Simut said. “Furthermore, it has been over for some time.”
“You and Nodjmet were lovers?”
“Isn’t that what Hebeney told you?” He could tell from my expression it wasn’t. He rasped out a curse in his native tongue. “What exactly did she tell you, sir?”
“I
t doesn’t matter, Simut. I –”
The glassmaker interrupted me. “She isn’t to be believed. You can’t believe either of them, sir, neither she nor Nodjmet. They hate each other. Hebeney was afraid she’d be accused of murdering Wosret. At least that’s what she said.”
In his tone I sensed the bitterness that can be distilled only from the most intimate of relationships. No doubt he and Hebeney had also been lovers, if they were not still. That would also explain why she had come to him.
“In my time I’ve heard many fabulous stories,” I said. “You can be certain I don’t accept as truth everything I’m told.”
I decided to recount my conversation with Hebeney. “Of course, when she told me that Nodjmet had inquired about sauces and poisons, I began to suspect her tale was, well, somewhat unreliable,” I concluded.
Simut released a ragged sigh. “That part at least is probably true.”
I wondered why he should give credence to such a tale.
“Because Nodjmet asked me to kill her husband. I see you don’t believe me, sir, nor do I blame you. I didn’t believe it at first either. She suggested I strangle Wosret one night after he had lost consciousness from intoxication, which happened often with him. I was then to burn his remains in my oven, to conceal the crime. When I refused she put an end to our relationship.”
He shook his head. “We used to meet here. sir. It’s a lonely corner of the estate, not like the busy servants’ quarter where I live. I was ill advised and stupid, sir. I thought she loved me but all the time she just had an eye on my oven.”
In the ensuing silence it came to me that Simut and Hebeney were indeed still lovers, working together to incriminate Nodjmet, each having reason to harbour hate for her.
Finally I asked Simut why I should believe such a tale, given he would surely have warned his employer of the danger.
“And explained to him how I’d learned of his peril? Besides, even if I could have found a way to warn him discreetly, without endangering myself, the end of Wosret’s marriage would have meant the loss of my job here, for I create nothing that is not intended to please Nodjmet.”
He nodded toward the work bench, upon which were arrayed an assortment of perfume bottles, cosmetic jars and drinking vessels in colours ranging from white to deep blue. “It is vexing to spend my life making beautiful things for such a hateful creature. It is work, however, and well-paid work at that.”
“But surely one with your skills could find such occupation anywhere?”
“But there is no place nearer to Amun than this estate.”
He took the rod with the cooling bottle on its end, shifted it around to examine it and then scowled.
“As I thought. It is flawed, sir,” he said, and without further warning swung the rod against the side of the oven sending bits of glass and clay flying. A sharp sliver hit the back of my hand, stinging like a wasp.
“Yet what is all this talk about murder, sir?” he said. “Wosret’s death was Amun’s will. It came exactly as his oracle had predicted. Where is the mystery in that?”
He had deftly made another clay mould and my gaze followed as he thrust it into the dazzling aperture of the oven.
As I walked away from the workshop my eyes watered as if I had stared into the sun and my head ached.
Had the priest Ti killed Wosret after they had conspired to enrich my late host, as Nodjmet believed? Why couldn’t the temple wait for its inheritance? Were the servants Hebeney and Simut conspiring against Nodjmet, the widow of their late master?
Even if they hated her, why would either have killed her husband?
Well, Hebeney might have reason, since it appeared she believed he had been indirectly responsible for the death of the man she had loved, her former master, the landowner Khu.
For that matter, the man who loved her now, Simut the glassmaker, might have carried out the deed on her behalf.
Or either might have been following the priest Ti’s orders.
Unless it was just as Simut had said, nothing more than Amun’s will.
Because there was the troublesome matter that Wosret didn’t appear to have died by any agency more palpable than Fate, helped along by habitual over-indulgence in barley beer.
I blinked. A phantom image of the glowing mouth of the glassmaker’s oven kept sailing into the corner of my vision. I rubbed my eyes.
That was when the mud fell away and I saw clearly what had happened.
It took me some further reflection before I decided how I could prove my case.
It should come as no surprise that the god Amun’s procession went on as scheduled and the street leading from the temple was as crowded as one might expect.
What, in this eternal land, is a man’s life compared to the affairs of the gods?
Besides, there were legal disputes to be resolved.
Because it was not for profane eyes to see the sacred idol, it was therefore hidden from view in a heavily carved and gilded oblong chest carried in a flower-bedecked barque of the sort that the sun god Ra, according to his followers, daily traverses the heavens.
The sacred procession was an impressive and somewhat noisy spectacle. A large company of white-robed, shaven-headed priests clustered around those carrying the barque by means of poles fitted into metal rings on its longer sides. Flanking these holy men, acolytes held large palm fronds to shelter the boat while before and after this focal point of the procession more priests chanted and shook sistrums. I was able to pick out Ti, who as was fitting given his position as head priest, was first in the line of those grasping the gilded pole fitted to the left-hand side of the boat.
I was not too surprised to see the newly widowed Nodjmet among the crowd, for it had occurred to me she intended to challenge her husband’s bequest by appealing to the oracle of Amun.
Glancing around the crowd, I noted Simut and Hebeney stood not far away. I stationed myself a short distance from them and waited.
As I watched, a thin fellow wearing a few rags around his loins stepped out of the onlookers and the procession halted. I am not an expert in Egyptian dialects so I made out only scattered words, but enough to understood he was a farmer and a rival had claimed ownership of one of his cows. The man presented his side of the dispute. He then bowed toward the barque. “Lord Amun, is what I have spoken the truth?”
Immediately the priests stepped back in unison, almost as if drawn backwards by a movement of the barque. The man’s face fell. He turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd. A few imprecations followed him. Obviously the god’s answer had been no.
The procession resumed its course and as the barque drew nearer I stepped forward.
The high priest Ti looked at me with what I took to be alarm. “Herodotus? You wish to question the oracle?”
“If it is permitted of a foreigner in your land, I do.”
“Before you ask, be certain you want to know the answer.”
“I believe everyone in Sekhet-am wants to know the answer to my question. Not least the members of the late Wosret’s household.”
I glanced back to be certain those to whom I referred were listening.
Then I put my question, speaking in strong, clear tones, for although I am not an orator I am often asked to recount to audiences the many wonders I have seen in my travels.
“I have pieced together an amazing tale,” I began. “This is what I believe happened. The woman Nodjmet married Wosret, an older and wealthy man. After he fell gravely ill she expected him to die. Unfortunately, he did not. They then took up residence on his estate, far from the delights of Alexandria. Not to mention a long way from her family.”
Several onlookers began muttering to each other. Ignoring them, I took up my tale. “She wasn’t satisfied with glass perfume bottles and bracelets or any of the gifts he lavished on her after his recovery. What she wanted was not him but his estate. And not to share it either, for as it turned out as a devout man he wished to thank his god for sparing his life by leaving
the temple half of all he owned when the time came.”
Ti grimaced at this remark but he said nothing and I continued. “When Nodjmet couldn’t recruit her servant Simut to do as she wished, she decided to carry out the deed herself. She had seen the metal rod Simut used to dip his clay models into molten glass. It was a weapon easily concealed beneath the voluminous robes she habitually wears to hide her withered arm.”
Ignoring the rising buzz of excitement in the crowd, I went on. “The guests at the banquet were all too intoxicated to have noticed the exchange she and her husband had at the table. And naturally the servants thought nothing of her coming and going from the house later that evening.”
There was a stir in the crowd as I pressed on. “It was an easy matter for Nodjmet to thrust that metal rod into the unconscious Wosret’s open mouth and down his throat until it pierced some vital organ. An arm made strong enough by its constant exercise to lift a heavy wine jug as easily as I had seen her lift the jug at the banquet would be more than powerful enough to accomplish such a task.”
I took another step forward, bowed and addressed the barque. “That is how Nodjmet murdered her husband Wosret. Lord Amun, is what I have spoken the truth?”
The priests and the barque remained still.
I glanced back at Nodjmet. She looked away from me and toward Ti. The priest met her gaze with his own.
Then the priests, and the barque, moved forward a step.
Amun had declared me truthful.
Backed by the oracle of Amun’s pronouncement, Simut and Hebeney were happy enough to reveal what they knew to the authorities.
Had Nodjmet approached me to accuse Ti, thinking that I might frighten him into giving up the temple’s claim to half the estate by threatening to identify him as a murderer?
Or had she decided to start making accusations before the servants Hebeney or Simut guessed what had happened and pointed to her?
I cannot say. Nor can I be certain who spoke when the barque lurched forward, sealing Nodjmet’s fate.
Was it truly Amun who propelled it? Or did Ti step out, thereby bringing the boat supported by his fellow priests forward, having seen the wisdom of settling matters for the benefit of the temple without costly legal wrangling?
