Scepter of Flint

by N. L. Holmes

  Finally, the commissioner spoke. “This is a bad business, Hani. It’s incredible to think any foreign emissary would behave so inappropriately. Unless the affair can be settled quietly, it will cause an enormous international row.”

  “Are these royal tombs? Is this in the Great Place or in Akhet-aten?”

  “Not royal, mercifully,” Ptah-mes said. “They are all very new tombs of wealthy people in Waset.”

  “What makes us so sure foreigners are involved?”

  “One of the draftsmen came forward with suspicions about a colleague. It seems likely that the burial workers are selling their services to reenter the tombs immediately after they’ve been sealed. He spoke of a man with an accent who was paying them.”

  Hani nodded slowly. “And we think he’s a diplomat why...?”

  Ptah-mes lifted his eyebrows. “That’s murkier. Of course, there are an inordinate number of foreign diplomats here at the moment and probably not so many civilians. And what civilian would dare to do something like this, knowing the penalty? A diplomat might count on his immunity.”

  “So that’s someone’s speculation?” Hani pressed.

  “I haven’t spoken to the man myself—it was the mayor of Waset who reported the witness’s words to the vizier—but so it seems. It will be up to you to prove or disprove this theory. And I definitely hope it’s wrong.” Ptah-mes smiled thinly. He reached out and clapped Hani on the shoulder. “I thought you’d like a mission in Waset for a change. And you really are the best man for the job.”

  “I’m honored, my lord,” said Hani humbly, keeping his reservations to himself. This could be dirty. These people clearly fear neither god nor man. “Will I have the aid of any troops? I can hardly stop a gang of tomb robbers by myself.”

  “Whatever you need. I’ll see to it a unit is at your disposal. And you have military experience; you know some of the commanders. If there is anyone you want, speak the word.”

  Ptah-mes rose, and Hani imitated him. “Can I offer you some of that wine from Kebni?” said Ptah-mes with his usual perfect courtesy.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Hani smiled broadly. “I wouldn’t say no.”

  ⸎

  Early the next morning, Maya was ushered into Ptah-mes’s house to find Lord Hani eating alone in the salon. For several years, the high commissioner had invited Hani and his secretary to remain at his villa when they were in Akhet-aten. Ptah-mes’s wife, formerly head of the musical establishment of Amen-Ra, refused to join him in the City of the Horizon, and Hani had often said he suspected that his superior was lonely. No matter how many times Maya had stayed there, he could never quite believe he was hobnobbing with a man of such wealth. Yet Lord Ptah-mes, for all his blue blood, had not once shown contempt for Maya’s dwarf stature or for his working-class origins.

  Hani greeted him, beaming. “You made good time, son. I’m sorry to have to drag you away from your family so soon.”

  “That’s the nature of the beast,” Maya said lightly.

  Hani eyed him, an eyebrow cocked. “Do I detect a certain eagerness to get away? No troubles between you and Sat-hut-haru, I hope?”

  “No, no,” Maya hastened to assure him. “It’s just that little Henut-sen doesn’t sleep well at night—and that means we don’t sleep well. I actually slept better on the boat when we tied up at night.”

  “Poor Sat-hut-haru.” Hani shook his head. “She can’t get away. I remember those days of glassy-eyed exhaustion.”

  Maya seated himself on the floor beside his father-in-law. “What’s the urgent mission, my lord?”

  “Ah, Maya, my young friend. This one could be dangerous. There have been tomb robberies in Waset, and it seems a foreigner is involved, possibly even a diplomat.” Hani told Maya the scant information Ptah-mes had imparted to him. “We’ll need to get back to the city and interview the worker who reported his colleague. From there, I think we have to locate that man and try to get some information from him, if he’s willing to talk in exchange for immunity. We must find out if any accredited diplomats are in on this and why. I mean, does their king know about it, or are they simply corrupt individuals?”

  Maya gave a dubious whistle. Tomb robbers, having already forfeited all protection of the law, were notoriously violent. “You don’t suppose they’re henchmen of the king, trying to discourage burial at Waset?”

  Hani thrust out his lip, considering. “An interesting theory. We should find out eventually.”

  He rose, and together, the two men headed for the Hall of Royal Correspondence. “Ptah-mes has promised us sealed letters of royal commission if anyone should refuse to cooperate. And our pick of soldiers.”

  What a story this will make! Maya all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Fatherhood had made him more cautious, but he still had a young man’s eagerness for adventure. And now he had his secret project in mind—namely, to write down all the colorful episodes of his career as Lord Hani’s secretary and turn them into a tale like Si-nehat or The Two Sailors. He practiced them on his mother and aunts and, more recently, on Sat-hut-haru and the children. Tepy, at two years old, was a little young to react with interest, but still, the sight of his father speaking with animation seemed to rivet the adorable little fellow.

  And look who had a second child only two years after the first one, while the mother was still nursing, Maya thought proudly. Fortunately, Hani had helped him hire a wet nurse for Sat-hut-haru. Yet another cause to be grateful to Lord Hani. Thanks to Hani’s patronage, Maya had been able to continue his basic schooling at the House of Life and become a full-fledged scribe. Without it, he would have found himself keeping his mother’s books at the goldsmith workshop for the rest of his days. Through Hani’s generosity, Maya had entered the ruling class. He wore his pen case proudly over his shoulder at all times so all the world would know that he was not just some dwarf with calloused hands and a bent back—he was literate. He was a royal scribe, and people had better step aside for him in the street.

  The two men were walking up the main avenue of the capital, heading north toward the bridge with its gates that opened into the palace precinct where the Hall of Royal Correspondence stood. Absorbed in their talk, they almost physically collided with a heavyset, well-dressed figure who was emerging from the building.

  The man’s scowling face grew crimson. “Hani,” he said coldly, eyeing Hani and Maya with ill-concealed contempt.

  “Mahu,” responded Hani with no more warmth. Neither of them had employed the honorific title of the other.

  Out of solidarity, Maya tried to look as haughty and menacing as he could. The animosity was real. This was the chief of the medjay, the police, of Akhet-aten. Two years before, the bastard had roughed Hani up, demanding to know the hiding place of his brother-in-law, Amen-em-hut, the renegade priest of Amen.

  “I understand we’re going to be colleagues,” said Mahu with a sneer.

  Maya felt confusion rising up his cheeks in a wave of heat, and he shot a glance at his father-in-law, but Hani maintained his diplomatic cool. “We’ll see. I’ve been told the army will be helping me, not the police.”

  “Well, perhaps you were told wrong, because the Lord of the Two Lands ordered me in person to carry out the investigation... with your help. If needed.” Mahu smiled, his mouth a smug, thin-lipped crescent.

  The lying turd. Maya clenched his jaw to hold back a comment he might regret.

  “We’ll see.” Hani’s flat tone revealed nothing. The two men nodded frigidly at one another and passed, continuing on their way. As soon as Mahu had disappeared from sight, Hani said through his teeth, “If that’s true—and it must be, or he wouldn’t have known anything about our mission, which is highly confidential—that really complicates our lives.”

  “This pretty much proves the king is at the bottom of it, though, doesn’t it? He wants his henchman to cover his tracks,” said Maya avidly.

  Hani heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. Let’s see what Ptah-mes has to say abou
t this.”

  They made their way toward the huddle of low buildings that housed the foreign office and crossed the sun-bleached courtyard. It took an instant for Maya to regain his sight once they entered the cool darkness of the reception hall. “But our orders came from the vizier himself, you said, my lord,” he persisted. “He must have been transmitting the king’s will.”

  Hani muttered something pessimistic and presented himself at the table of the guardian. “Hani son of Mery-ra to see Lord Ptah-mes.” He turned to Maya. “Wait here. This shouldn’t take long. I want to get our written orders and ask if the commissioner knows anything about this mess.”

  ⸎

  Hani entered Lord Ptah-mes’s office to find him seated on the floor cross-legged, writing something without the aid of a secretary. He looked up and explained dryly, “I’m no longer sure I can trust my own staff.” He pushed aside his implements, rose with his usual grace, and seated himself in his chair of office, motioning to Hani to take a seat on a stool. “I have your orders for you, my friend. If anyone gives you any trouble, flash these under his nose.”

  “A complication has arisen, my lord—a matter of jurisdiction—and I’d like to get a clarification,” said Hani.

  Ptah-mes lifted an eyebrow. “Jurisdiction? How so?”

  “I just ran into Mahu, the chief of police. He said the king had given the medjay jurisdiction over the case and I was to help him.”

  Ptah-mes’s eyes widened in surprise, then he gave a cynical snort. “My first reaction was to say ‘That’s false,’ but in fact, who knows what the king has said to him?” His voice dropped and actually shook a little, and if Hani hadn’t known how well Ptah-mes could dissemble his true emotions, he would have sworn it was with rage. “This constant undermining of orders with counterorders happens all the time in our dealings with other kingdoms. The foreign service is a knot of contradictory policy statements.”

  “On the practical level, what should I do?” Hani persisted, his heart heavy over the sad state of royal policy.

  “Proceed according to your orders,” said Ptah-mes firmly, handing Hani a scroll covered in seals. “I’ll talk to Aper-el and see if he knows anything about a change in jurisdiction.” He stared into space, his body tense, his lean face stretched downward in contained fury. “Do they plan to have the police arrest a foreign diplomat like a common criminal and impale him? That will certainly mean war.”

  “Perhaps no diplomats are involved.” Hani hesitated then smiled. “Maya thinks the king himself has violated the tombs to discourage people from being buried in Waset.”

  But Ptah-mes didn’t smile back. He looked grim in the extreme. “Who knows?”

  Hani was in a dark mood of disgust as he returned to the reception hall, where Maya sat cross-legged on the floor, awaiting him. The secretary scrambled to his feet, his eager curiosity growing anxious as he took in Hani’s expression. “What is our status, my lord?” he asked hesitantly, as if afraid to receive an answer.

  “That remains unclear. Ptah-mes knew nothing about Mahu’s involvement, but he didn’t seem to find it far-fetched that the king might, in fact, have given him jurisdiction over us.” Hani shook his head cynically. “More of the usual internal politics.”

  Anger simmering in his gut, Hani strode out of the hall with Maya in his wake. What game is the king playing, with me as a pawn and the safety of the kingdom as stakes?

  CHAPTER 2

  “AT LEAST IT’S NICE to have an assignment in Waset for a change. We won’t have to go back and forth to that abominable City of the Horizon,” said Maya optimistically. The two men were standing outside Hani’s gate, waiting for his litter.

  But Hani grunted, his thickety eyebrows buckling. “Why is Mahu involved? Even if the medjay were called in, wouldn’t you think it would be the officers from Waset? There’s more to this than meets the eye.” He shot Maya a glance. “More and more, I’m convinced you’re right. Our Sun God is involved in this business somehow.”

  Pleased, Maya threw his head back in a gesture that aimed at modesty. “One never knows.”

  The men made their way to the quays, where despite the early hour, they quickly found a ferry crossing the River. As the sun rising behind them cast its nacreous glow of rose over the sky and the waters all around, they disembarked on the western bank and began the arduous trek into the arid mountains and valleys where the workmen’s village, the Place of Truth, was located. They would need a guide to find the tombs that had been robbed.

  The landscape was as bleak and devoid of vegetation as some grisly pit of the underworld. This was the Red Land, the desert—the realm of Sutesh and an image of chaos. Sharp rocks strewed the path, which mounted in steep switchbacks as it climbed into the Mountains of the West. Ahead was the Great Place, the remote valley where kings of Kemet had been buried for hundreds of years—ever since a Theban dynasty had come to the throne. But Hani and Maya turned and followed the foothills to a kind of basin in a high, rolling plain, where the white enclosure wall of the village stood out brightly against the dun rocks. A hawk sailed far, far overhead, seemingly searching for little rodents in the crevices, and Hani asked himself again who this really was and why the bird kept haunting his steps. Clustered around the village were the tombs of generations of high-level workmen, some of them quite elaborate with tall pyramidal markers and impressive stone entryways. The servants in the Place of Truth might be artisans, but they clearly didn’t need to envy the tombs of modest aristocrats like Hani.

  “They’re far away from everything,” Maya commented, huffing and puffing, as they made their way between the tombs. “Can’t be much fun to live out here.”

  “I understand the nearest wells are half a league away. But these people are paid generously, and there are always jobs. Even,” Hani added darkly, “if the present administration has moved its burial place to Akhet-aten. There are still plenty of rich private tombs being built in the area.” Ptah-mes’s, for one. There’s one little act of defiance he has allowed himself.

  When they had reached the Place of Truth, it was lunchtime. A line of women and girls bearing baskets were departing from the gate just as the two scribes entered. “There goes lunch for the men at their work camp. And speaking of lunch, let’s see if there are any beer houses,” Hani said.

  The village was laid out with dense military precision, row after row of blank facades and walled yards closing in the streets. Clearly, no one was wasting any space. At this hot midday hour, few people were at work on the roof terraces, and the place seemed uninhabited except for an occasional call or burst of laughter from within the whitewashed walls. At first, the houses were small and the doors closely spaced, but as the two scribes zigzagged through the village, the dwellings became more impressive.

  “The overseers and scribes must live in this area. Not likely to find a beer house here. We need to ask someone directions,” Hani said.

  As if in response, a man emerged from a gateway not too far ahead of him. He started in the direction of the two scribes, head down, intent upon his way, but then he looked up and said in surprise, “Hello. I don’t think I know you.”

  Does he really know everyone in the village? Hani wondered. There must be at least some hundreds of inhabitants, although admittedly only sixty or seventy of that number are likely to be grown men. Aloud, he said with a friendly smile, “You don’t indeed. We’re here on the king’s business, and we’re looking for a place to have lunch. Is there a beer house?”

  The man protested, “Oh, men of your caliber don’t want to eat there. Come to my house. My wife will be happy to serve the king’s men.” He took Hani by the elbow and directed the two toward the handsome red gate from which he had just emerged.

  “My name is Hani son of Mery-ra. This is my son-in-law, Maya. I thank you for your most hospitable offer, but we don’t want to be a burden.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. I am Ankh-reshet, overseer of the right-hand corps. I’m one of the councilors of the Plac
e of Truth. You would offend us all if you refused.” He was a tall, angular man a little older than Hani with a wide snaggletoothed smile and a scribe’s writing case dangling over his shoulder. He ushered his guests into the garden of a miniature villa, with palm trees and some sparse bushes and a tiny pool stocked with fish.

  And they have to bring water from a half league’s distance, Hani marveled. To his delight, a trio of geese floated in the water. The birds watched the newcomers with an outraged stare, then they began to honk in menace, their little tongues sticking out like the anther of some hostile flower. Hani laughed, and his host tipped his head in question.

  “I’m very fond of birds,” Hani explained, embarrassed.

  “Excellent, my lord. I try to make them welcome in my garden. This is such a barren area that we don’t have many except for domesticated ones like my geese. Let me set you up here in the pavilion, where it’s cooler.” Ankh-reshet led them to a small pergola shaded by a reed mat and offered them stools. He disappeared briefly into the house and a moment later returned with two servants. One of them set up a small table in front of each man and set out bread and braised leeks while the other positioned a beer pot beside each one.

  “Forgive me for not joining you,” said the overseer, “but we’ve already eaten.”

  “This is too good of you,” Hani said, already tearing off a chunk of the bread and dipping it into his leeks. At his side, Maya sucked thirstily at his beer.

  Ankh-reshet pulled up a stool and, smiling, watched them eat. “What brings you gentlemen to our remote village? You say you are on the king’s business?”

  “That’s right,” Hani said. “I’m here to ask some questions of a man named Djau. I believe he’s a draftsman.”

  “He’s in my corps,” said their host, starting to look worried. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he? He’s a good man, takes care of his old mother and both of his late brother’s children.”