Scepter of Flint

by N. L. Holmes

  They took their leave sadly and trudged down the street and out the gate of the village in silence, Maya’s thoughts all in turmoil. Finally, as they began the descent of the rocky path toward the River, he burst out, “The bloody bastard. Is there no justice in the world?”

  Mery-ra shook his head. “It sometimes seems not, I fear. But we have to believe that ma’at will triumph. Whoever killed our friend Djau may think he’s gotten away with it, but the Judge of Souls will see through him.”

  “How will the murderer keep a straight face at the Weighing of Hearts when he has to say, ‘I have not sinned in the Place of Truth; I have not caused tears; I have not killed; I haven’t taken milk from the mouths of children?’” Maya gave a bark of savage satisfaction. “He’s damned for sure, whoever he is.”

  “Let’s hope Hani can figure out who he is, because I’d like to see some justice done on earth too.” Mery-ra hawked and spat.

  They fell silent again as they descended the arid chert-littered path toward the River. The clatter of rolling gravel, Lord Mery-ra’s heavy breathing, and the dry rustle of wind were the only sounds that broke the solitude of this realm of the Lover of Silence. As they neared the riverbank, Maya finally said, “What must it be like to work on tombs all the time? You’d suspect it would make those people think about death a lot. And yet here they go, killing one another with no concern for the eternal consequences.”

  Mery-ra heaved a sigh. “In all fairness, Maya, we don’t know that it was one of the workmen who killed Djau. That military arrow makes me wonder. Hani will be able to figure it out. I have confidence in him.”

  So do I, Maya thought fervently. If anyone under the sun can find Djau’s killer, it’s Lord Hani.

  ⸎

  “Ah, here you are,” Hani called from the salon as Maya and Mery-ra, huffing and puffing, entered. “What’s going on with Khawy?”

  “Bad news, son,” said Hani’s father grimly. “Young Khawy is now the head of his family. Somebody has murdered Djau.”

  “Oh no,” Hani cried in genuine pain. He thought of the little draftsman with his protruding eyes and labored breathing. “How do they know it was murder?” Hani’s father held up an arrow and laid it in the hand of his son, who gave a low whistle of appreciation. “That’s an evil-looking bird.” Hani looked up at Mery-ra. “Military?”

  “Can’t think of who else would need one. It’s a man killer.”

  “What does that mean, I wonder?” Hani stared at the arrow’s murderous broad flint blade and bloody bindings. “Do the medjay use such things?”

  Mery-ra made a dubious noise. “I think they’re more into bronze rods and baboons. But certainly, they must have archers.”

  “Some renegade soldier in the pay of the tomb robbers?”

  But Maya protested, “Why would they kill him now? He’s already made his report. Anyway, the malefactors are in custody. They didn’t do it.”

  “Vengeance? Their leader is still on the loose.” Hani put the arrow down as if it had suddenly bitten him. “Or maybe it’s Mahu, the turd. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something low like this.”

  “But why?” Maya persisted. “It’s not as if Djau died under questioning. Somebody ambushed him on the trail between the camp and the tomb and put a killer arrow into his back.”

  “Wait, son,” said Mery-ra. “The tomb robbers were not in custody. The murder happened a week ago, according to Khawy.”

  Hani pondered this blackly. “I can’t eliminate any possibility, but I still don’t see a motive. He’d already made his report.”

  “Could it have been some tomb guard? Khawy said his uncle was alone, climbing up to the tombs after everyone else had gone. Maybe they saw a lone man prowling around and thought he was up to no good.” Maya crossed his legs and sat down beside Hani with a whump, no doubt glad enough to get off his feet after a morning spent clambering over the steep western bank.

  “It’s as viable as any other theory at this point,” Hani said. “I’m just glad we got Bebi-ankh out before the same thing happened to him.”

  He climbed to his feet and heaved a sigh. Things seemed to be getting more and more complicated—as they so often did. “I hope we can find the leader of this gang before he strikes again.”

  ⸎

  Nub-nefer had decorated the house for the dinner party with greens and whatever fresh flowers she could find in midwinter, but ironically, the weather was so mild that Hani had decided they should eat in the garden pavilion. Every time he went out there, he felt a pang of regret for Qenyt, the pet heron he’d raised from an egg. He kept expecting to see her stately gray form passing through the bushes or find her posed in absolute stillness by the lily pool, waiting for a frog to emerge. He entered the pavilion through the rolled-up mat over the open wall. Over the porch, the arbor was festooned with the leafless skeletons of grapevines.

  Nub-nefer was already within, putting the finishing touches on the tables. “Neferet wants to eat with the grown-ups tonight,” she said with a smile. “I told her she could since she’s technically an adult now.” She fixed Hani with a complicit little quirk of the mouth.

  “Of course, my dove. It wouldn’t be fair for her to be the only one who can’t be at the party.” He moved to her side and gave her a kiss.

  “Do you know if these young men are married?”

  Hani laughed. “Surely you don’t want her to move to Naharin. The country is falling apart.” He couldn’t help thinking of poor Kiya, whose choice had been made for her by others.

  “Maybe they have young friends in the diplomatic corps here,” she protested vaguely.

  Hani’s eldest girl and the most beautiful of his daughters, Baket-iset, lay on her couch, made up and wigged to perfection. “And how are you, my swan?” he said affectionately, seating himself at her side and resting a hand on her withered arm.

  “Very well, Papa. I just hope these guests speak Egyptian.”

  “I’m sure they do. But thank you for reminding me not simply to take off in Hurrian so you and Mama and Neferet can’t understand.” Hani grew more serious—so many things were weighing on his mind—and he said in a lower voice, “I have need of your wisdom, my dear. One of my witnesses was just murdered, and we don’t—”

  But at that moment, A’a appeared on the porch and cleared his throat. “My lord, your guests have arrived.”

  Hani jumped to his feet, brushed down his kilt, and straightened his shirt, which tended to bunch up over his stomach. Nub-nefer adjusted her shawl and rearranged Hani’s floral collar, and the two of them made their way to the gate to greet their guests.

  “Welcome to our house, my friends,” Hani called genially to the three Mitannians. The serving girls stood by with basins and towels, ready to wash the Mitannians’ feet, even though the men were all wearing closed leather shoes.

  “This is good of you, Hani,” said Keliya as they embraced. “Tulubri and Pirissi don’t know anyone in Waset yet and certainly no one in Akhet-aten.”

  “Well, I can’t help you there. But I’ll bet Lord Ptah-mes would host you when the holidays are over. He’s been very generous with his house, since he’s there alone.”

  The men took the stools they were offered, and the servants drew off the Mitannians’ shoes and began to pour warm water over their feet.

  “This is civilized,” said Tulubri with a sigh of pleasure. “Why don’t we do this at home?” They all laughed.

  Nub-nefer handed each man a long-stemmed water lily and affixed a cone of perfumed wax to the top of each head. “You don’t have wigs, so I hope this won’t slide. It will infuse your hair with perfume as it melts.”

  “All the stories we’ve heard about the sophistication of Kemet are true, I see,” said Pirissi, beaming.

  Keliya looked on benevolently. He took on an almost paternal expression of pride at this display of good manners by his young colleagues.

  Hani led the guests through the salon, decked with flowers as it was, and thence into th
e garden. The winter night had already fallen, but Nub-nefer had set oil lamps along the path to the pavilion, and their bright flames flickered, warm and festive, in the darkness. Ahead, yet more lamps and torches lit the pavilion with a welcoming glow. Hani saw Neferet inside, smiling from ear to ear, waiting to bestow a floral collar on each guest. The mild night pulsed with crickets. He felt cheerful and at peace, despite all the problems that lurked around the edges of his life. Tonight, they would eat and drink and enjoy the company of their guests. In the morning, he would return to the world of murder and tomb robbing and Naharin’s civil war.

  The dinner unrolled pleasantly. The two young Mitannians were proficient in Egyptian and were witty and interested in everything—perfect guests. Hani suppressed a chuckle as he saw Neferet corner Tulubri and describe in extreme detail her work at the House of Royal Ornaments.

  “Have you met our princess, Lady Kiya?” asked Pirissi, leaning across his companion.

  “Not yet, my lord. But Lady Djefat-nebty said we’ll be going up to Hut-nen-nesut soon to look at the king’s harem—those who aren’t at the palace in Akhet-aten,” Neferet said enthusiastically.

  She continued to bubble on about the health of the royal ladies while Hani’s thoughts darkened. Only a few years before, Kiya had had her own place at the king’s side. She’d been the Greatly Beloved Wife, with a maru—a private meditation garden—in her name and her face on every piece of official art. The Great Queen herself had seen Kiya as a rival. Now, despite Hani’s efforts, Kiya was disposable, her political value annulled by her father’s slipping grip on the throne of Naharin.

  “I need to go to Hut-nen-nesut too,” Hani said. “Mane wanted me to comfort Lady Kiya.” He wanted me to keep her from being exiled, but there’s no way I can accomplish that.

  “That would be splendid, Hani,” said Keliya gratefully. “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  The men continued to talk about one thing and another, Neferet inserting herself, as usual, with a little more than polite frequency. Nub-nefer and Baket-iset smiled and occasionally offered a ladylike remark. The cones of wax on the diners’ wigs were slumping considerably by the time Nub-nefer leaned over to Hani and whispered, “I’ll get the sweets and tell the servants to refill the lamps.”

  She started to rise, but Hani stood up and pressed her back with a fond hand on her shoulder. “Let me, my dear. I need to take a leak anyway.”

  He slipped out by way of the porch and made his way through the garden. Some of the lamps lining the path had already burned out. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted in from the pavilion. Hani entered the salon—which was mostly dark, the lamps having consumed their moringa oil—and was heading to the kitchen and its latrine when he saw, from the corner of his eye, Bebi-ankh, standing in the doorway of his room.

  He’s able to walk better now with a crutch, Hani thought, pleased. But there was something about Bebi-ankh’s expression that wiped the smile from his face. The man’s eyes were wild with fear and disbelief. As soon as he saw Hani looking at him, he dodged back into his room and closed the door.

  ⸎

  The next morning, the household slept late. The Mitannians had stayed nearly till dawn, enjoying the beer and the conversation that stretched on even after the delicious dinner had been picked to bones. Keliya had been grateful for the hospitality toward his young confreres and promised to host another get-together at Mane’s house as soon as their old friend got home.

  Hani awoke slowly and lay in bed at Nub-nefer’s side, listening to the twittering of birds from the garden. Eventually, he got up, dressed quietly, and made his way to the kitchen. He was standing there, eating some leftover partridge and a stale piece of flatbread, when he heard a female voice hissing softly, “Bibi? Where are you?”

  The painter’s wife entered, her hair disheveled from sleep, a suckling baby latched to her breast. She saw Hani and jerked back. “Oh, my lord. Forgive me. I was looking for my husband.”

  “Quite all right,” he assured her. “He wasn’t in the room? I saw him last night standing in the doorway.”

  “He was gone from the bed when I woke up, my lord. He can’t have gone far on his crutch. But we don’t like to wander around the house and bother your family.”

  “No bother, mistress,” he said kindly. “I’m glad he’s able to get around better. I hope his burns are healing. My daughter is a doctor, if he needs anything.”

  “Thank you, my lord. He’s doing well. But he’s still afraid, you know? He’s afraid those people are after him even here.” She heaved a shaky sigh and fondled her baby’s shaved head.

  “Well, reassure him that that’s unlikely. Nobody knows where he’s gone.”

  The woman ducked a little bow and headed back off to her family’s room, leaving Hani sunk in thought as he remembered the expression on Bebi-ankh’s face the night before. Before long, Neferet appeared, rubbing her eyes but cheerful as ever. She gave Hani her usual rib-cracking hug and began to poke through the leftovers for something to eat.

  “How was your first grown-up dinner party, my duckling?” Hani asked with a smile.

  “It was fun, Papa. Those men speak good Egyptian.”

  “They do,” he agreed. He’d hosted many foreigners over the course of his career, and some were more fluent than others. Keliya, of course, had been in the country for years. But the other two Mitannians, who’d never set foot in the Two Lands, had learned somewhere to speak effortlessly and with a passable accent. “I wish I were so good at Hurrian.”

  “But you speak so many languages, Papa. You can’t be good in all of them,” she said matter-of-factly, popping a chunk of bread into her mouth.

  “I’m going to Akhet-aten later this morning and, from there, to Hut-nen-nesut. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Yes, I do. Bener-ib and Lady Djefat-nebty need me.”

  Hani forced himself not to say anything; they’d had that conversation already. He just gave Neferet’s shoulders an eloquent squeeze.

  “Hani? Father? Where is everyone?” Pipi called from the vestibule. A moment later, he appeared in the kitchen door—a squat figure, like all the men in Hani’s family, although fattening up in addition. He’d never been as athletic as his older brother. The sight of Pipi’s square-jowled, cheerful face and honest little eyes never failed to awaken in Hani the affection and protectiveness he’d felt since childhood.

  Pipi took off his wig and scratched his head vigorously.

  “Don’t tell me there are fleas at Lord Ptah-mes’s house!” Hani protested with a snort of laughter.

  “Not at all. I’m just tired of dressing up. Even his servants are better kitted out than us.” He chuckled guiltily. “But oh, Hani, what a place he has! By the balls of the Hidden One! I wake up every morning thinking, ‘Can I really be here? I must have died and gone to the Field of Reeds.’”

  Hani laughed and scrubbed his brother’s short-cropped hair with his knuckles.

  Pipi laughed, too, until his belly bounced. Then he said more seriously, “Hani, old man, I’ve been thinking. A post with the foreign service is too good to pass up. I think I want to go up to Akhet-aten after all.”

  Hani eyed him in surprise. This was the first time he’d ever heard his little brother express any kind of ambition. “It’s up to you, Pipi. The job is yours if you want it, just... just be careful, all right?”

  Pipi, jovial again, assured him, “I won’t have anything to do with the court—believe me. But it would be nice to be a royal scribe again. Enjoy a little respect.” He looked up at Hani from under his eyebrows, as if ashamed to make such an admission—he, the free spirit of the family, concerned with people’s respect.

  Hani knew that his brother had always felt a sense of failure when comparing himself to his elder, who had made a good career for himself. Pipi had actually left the royal service and taken a lower-ranking position with the local government of Men-nefer. Perhaps Pipi’s dogged refusal to mount the usual ladder of advancem
ent was in part due to a fear of becoming engaged in a competition he couldn’t win. Hani’s heart clenched with tenderness for Pipi’s pain, which he’d never thrown in Hani’s face.

  Hani clapped him on the shoulder to hide the affection he felt for him and couldn’t resist goosing him in the side. Pipi twisted away, hooting, and came at Hani with a mock growl. Hani locked his leg around Pipi’s, and the two of them fell, laughing and roaring, to the floor, writhing and wrestling. Neferet shrieked with laughter in the background.

  At that moment, Mery-ra entered. “I see the two old men have entered a second childhood. Good thing you and I are here to be the grown-ups, Neferet.”

  Hani and Pipi picked themselves up from the floor, dusting off their kilts. Pipi found his wig and clapped it on his head. “Morning, Father,” he said, his cheeks red with exertion and pleasure.

  Mery-ra embraced him. “What brings you back to our humble abode, son? The ancestral home must look pretty poor after Ptah-mes’s palace.”

  “I told Hani I wanted that post in the foreign service after all. I’ll go down to the capital with him and Neferet.”

  “Is it safe?” Mery-ra shot a quick look of uncertainty at Hani, who shrugged.

  “He can do whatever he wants, Father.”

  “Shall I examine you for injuries?” Neferet asked.

  Minutes have passed without her being the center of attention, Hani thought with amusement. “You may have strained something, Uncle Pipi. Papa is a top wrestler.”

  Hani had to laugh. “Better put that in the past tense, my duckling. I haven’t been a wrestler since my student days. And Uncle outweighs me.”

  “Then you may have strained something, Papa.”

  Hani put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and pressed her to him. “It’s time we got you back to where you have real sick people to take care of.” He tried not to think about the implications of that. “As soon as Maya gets here, we’ll be off.”

  They passed all together into the salon, where their baskets and bags had been deposited. Hani was about to head back upstairs to the bedroom when he heard A’a’s voice from the garden saying, “He’ll be right here, my lords.”