The Gardener and the Assassin

by Mark Gajewski

  “As you told Harwa.” Pentawere chuckled. “He probably believes you now. He didn’t before we visited Khufu’s ka chapel.”

  I smiled. We walked on. In the distance, beyond this cemetery, I spotted a series of very large low mounds. Due to their size they had to be the graves of the first kings. Their setting was spectacular, backed by a line of steep striated hills striped with moonlight and deep shadow.

  Pentawere pointed to a large ghostly structure. “That must be Osiris’ grave.”

  We walked towards it, weaving between numerous smaller mounds and large depressions created when the roofs of tombs collapsed during past millennia.

  I stumbled, caught myself. Pentawere bent, dug up a jar. Its protruding lip, the only part not buried, had tripped me. He brushed it off, held it so the moonlight fell on it. “There seems to be some kind of writing.” He rubbed the dirt off as best he could with his fingers. “Looks like an elephant standing atop three mountain peaks.”

  I studied it closely. “This is very ancient writing. Primitive. Probably indicates the hamlet or estate whatever was in the jar came from. What do you think? Abdju?”

  “Could just as easily be Abu, the cataract,” Pentawere said.

  “I’ll bet this jar was dropped by a tomb robber.”

  “Stealing from the dead appears to be an ancient occupation,” Pentawere said. “You know, the Great Place was specifically chosen for pharaohs’ tombs because it was isolated and easily guarded. Yet men like your husband tunnel into tombs at will.”

  “Brought to justice out of jealousy, not because they were caught in the act.”

  “And so, no pharaoh’s body will ever be safe, nor the riches buried with him.”

  We continued on to Osiris’ grave. Unlike nearby graves, all very large and outlined by crumbling remains of low rectangular retaining walls barely peeking through drifts of sand, the mounds that had once covered them swept away by centuries of strong unhindered wind, Osiris’ was well cared for. The wall around it was in good shape, clearly rebuilt. Dirt was mounded high atop the grave. Steps descended into an underground chamber.

  “This isn’t really Osiris’ grave,” I told Pentawere. “It belonged to Djer, Narmer’s grandson. My ancestor.”

  “You’re really descended from kings, Neset?”

  “My ancestress Benerib was the daughter of King Narmer’s brother, Djem, and a talisman–bearer named Ashayt. Benerib married King Aha, Narmer’s son. King Djer was their son. Djer’s daughter Merneith wore my talisman. King Djet was her brother as well as her husband. She ruled the land as regent after Djet died, because her son Den was very young. And finally, King Den’s son, King Adjib. He was my last royal ancestor. By the time of King Qa’a my ancestors had somehow fallen from prominence and become carvers of stone vases in the kings’ workshops.”

  “Your excuse that you’re not good enough to marry me because you’re a commoner doesn’t hold water anymore,” Pentawere said. “Royal blood doesn’t fade.”

  I laughed. “That was a hundred lifetimes ago. Your mother wouldn’t consider such a distant past relevant. If she even believed me.” I swept the desert with my eyes. The plain was eerie in the moonlight, even the slightest disturbance on its surface casting shadows. So many shadows. Undoubtedly, the largest disturbances were the graves of the first kings we’d come in search of.

  Pentawere seemed as moved as me by the cemetery. “This feels like a holy place,” he said. “I wonder why so many rulers felt compelled to be buried here over such a long span of time.”

  “They did it on purpose, I think. Consider the contrast in this valley between river and floodplain and high desert – order versus chaos, life versus lifelessness. The river brings life to our land, yet a too–high or too–low inundation brings death. The floodplain’s provided bounty for untold generations, yet even with bounty life is harsh and cursed with illness and death.” I touched the wall around Osiris’ grave, looked upwards. “Our gods dwell in the sky, among the sun and stars. Without their benevolence the sun wouldn’t rise and the river wouldn’t flood and our crops would fail and we’d die. Our ancestors had to figure out a way to lure gods from the sky to earth so they could make offerings to them every day, in hopes the gods would take care of us. So our ancestors created shrines for the gods to visit. But there were very few shrines scattered throughout the valley in Narmer’s day. Each might attract the attention of a single god. But a gathering of kings, Pentawere! That would attract all the gods. So Narmer and his immediate successors buried themselves here, alongside a host of earlier kings, so the gods would be drawn to Abdju and help the kings maintain the valley’s fragile newly–forged unity.”

  “Sounds reasonable. I’ve been thinking about your stories all day, Neset. They bear the ring of truth. I must admit, finding Khufu’s statue where you said we would and matching its description exactly lends credence to them. Are you sure your ancestor didn’t just hear about the statue from someone else and weave it into a tale?”

  “I’m not. But there are so many stories, and they’re all so precise. Don’t forget – I know a lot more about Weni too.” I fingered the talisman. “So many stories feature this object. They can’t all be made up.”

  “So, if the stories are true, so must be your dream. Father really is in danger from Ramesses.”

  “We’d be foolish to think otherwise,” I said. I took a deep uneasy breath. “Anyway, all the kings’ graves supposedly had mud–brick funerary chapels attached to the retaining walls. Stone stelae with the owner’s name supposedly flank the chapels or lean against the nearby wall. Shall we look?”

  We found no chapel beside Osiris’ grave, which wasn’t surprising since it had been renovated. If Djer’s stela had ever been here it had either been buried or discarded. But nearby we found dozens barely peeking above the sand, the majority containing the names of women.

  “More than three hundred of King Djer’s retainers were killed to accompany him to the Afterlife,” I told Pentawere solemnly. “All slain the day of his burial by his successor.” I shivered. “That practice died out after the first kings, for obvious reasons. But it was already an ancient practice when Narmer was buried here, as far back as five hundred years earlier at Nekhen.”

  We next found a bit of rounded stone at the base of a nearby mound and cleared several feet of dirt from in front of it. We revealed a serek with the Horus falcon perched on top and the name of a king inside.

  “Peribsen,” I read. “He was King Khasekhemwy’s father.” We moved to a nearby mound. This time the discovery was more exciting. “King Djet, Djer’s son!” I exclaimed.

  Pentawere caught my excitement and moved to a different mound and searched. “Adjib,” he called.

  “Narmer’s three times great grandson.”

  Pentawere had the next discovery too. “Ini. But his name’s not in a serek.”

  I joined him. “Another retainer.” I moved to another mound, revealed another stela. “Merneith,” I announced, kneeling beside it. I traced her name reverently with my fingertips. I felt her presence. “Sister wife of one king and mother of another and a regent, the very first female king. Thus her magnificent grave amidst the other kings.” I touched the talisman around my neck. “She was the ninth woman in my family to wear this. I’m the eleventh.”

  I removed the talisman, rested it atop Merneith’s stela for a moment, then slipped it over my head. I’d never felt so connected to my ancestors, so much a part of an ancient lineage stretching back to a time beyond imagining. I rose, reluctantly, and we moved on to the next set of graves. “Den.” Then “Semerkhet.” Then “Qa’a.”

  That was the last of the mounds in this section.

  “It’s getting late,” Pentawere said. “We need to be up at dawn.”

  We retraced our steps, passed through Scorpion’s cemetery. A greatly weathered mound caught my eye, and a bit of stone. I couldn’t resist. Pentawere helped me scrape away the sand.

  “Narmer!” I exclaimed as t
he serek came to light. “The man who united this valley almost two thousand years ago.” I rose to my feet, began inspecting nearby mounds. “Here’s another one!” I cried after a short search.

  “Aha,” Pentawere read.

  “Narmer’s son and successor,” I said. “The man who solidified Narmer’s rule and established the line of succession.” I surveyed the surrounding terrain. “Somewhere near this grave is one belonging to his wife, Benerib. She was my ancestress. She bore this talisman. Aha loved her so much he didn’t have her killed to accompany him to the Afterlife. Thus, her separate grave.”

  As we headed back towards town I knew I’d remember these hours on the desert at Abdju for the rest of my life. Those kings shared the same ka. That ka was still part of my family. I’d had the strangest feeling all night, in the presence of Merneith and Den and Benerib and the other kings, as if I’d been part of two worlds at the same time, the seen and unseen, the living and the dead, each equally real.

  I lay awake on my bed until dawn broke across the eastern sky, replaying that glorious night over and over. Not just being in the presence of my ancestors, but being with the man I loved.

  ***

  Harwa allowed Pentawere to enter Osiris’ temple to help him awaken the god the morning of the festival. I waited outside the entrance along with Tjuyu and other high officials, beside the cenotaphs on the Terrace of the Great God, next to Grandfather’s newly installed stela.

  “Whose is this?” Tjuyu asked, pointing to the one beside it. She was wearing a very sheer dress and a magnificent collection of jewelry and a fragrant perfume. She’d obviously adorned herself to entice Pentawere. She needn’t have gone to so much trouble; she was by far the most beautiful woman I’d seen at Abdju or anywhere else for that matter.

  I peered at it. “Intef. He was a civil servant. His inscription reflects his occupation: I am patient, I am polite, I am calm, I am friendly, I am generous, I am intelligent, I am eloquent, I am faithful, I am honest.”

  “Apparently he was everything a civil servant should be.” Tjuyu laughed.

  Similar stelae up to six deep lined the Processional Way far beyond the Terrace. The stelae were a way for people to attend this festival by proxy, for even those of modest means throughout the valley aspired to benefit from Osiris’ blessings. Several officials had moments earlier pointed out to me stelae they’d erected for themselves years ago. They hadn’t made secret that they were interested in me. I endured their pleasantries, even responded coquettishly to a couple, just in case Tiye’s spies were lurking nearby.

  Next to Grandfather’s stela was another new one commemorating Pentawere’s participation in today’s ceremony.

  Residents and visitors were crowding both sides of the Processional Way. I was excited. I couldn’t believe I was about to participate in the ceremony, not just imagine it from the hillside above Ta Set Maat as I had my entire life. As I would next to Grandfather’s tomb on Qurnet Murai next year.

  “Do you know Pharaoh’s son well, Neset?” Tjuyu asked casually.

  I was immediately on guard. She might be asking because she considered me a rival and was trying to find out if Pentawere and I were involved. Or she might be asking at Tiye’s behest – Tiye had invited her to Pi–Ramesses to tempt Pentawere, after all. I hated regarding everyone I encountered with suspicion. But until Pentawere and I were married and freed from Tiye’s influence I had no other choice. “We’re slightly acquainted, yes,” I said as if it was something trivial.

  “Does Pentawere have women at Djeme?”

  I doubted Pentawere had given Tjuyu leave to refer to him by his given name. She was trying to impress me. “I’m hardly in a position to know, My Lady.”

  “I suppose a gardener wouldn’t have reason to encounter Pentawere. Yet you two were whispering together yesterday. Surely you knew each other before this trip.”

  “We met briefly years ago. The men who excavate pharaohs’ tombs went on strike. I grew up in their village. I petitioned His Majesty on their behalf. He was gracious enough to resolve their situation.”

  “Your villagers sent a woman to negotiate for them?”

  “They were desperate. I was slightly acquainted with His Majesty. You see, he’d sentenced my husband to death a couple of years earlier.”

  “Sentenced?” She hadn’t expected that.

  “He’d committed a very serious crime. His Majesty had no choice.”

  Tjuyu laughed. “When I first saw you and Pentawere together in the temple I thought he’d brought you along as his companion, to share his bed here at Abdju.”

  How crass.

  “Guess I was wrong. He really sentenced your husband to death?”

  “He did.”

  Tjuyu laughed again. “Are there any rumors of a royal marriage involving Pentawere?”

  A chance to play on her insecurities. I shrugged. “Plenty. The women in Ta Set Maat love to gossip about His Majesty. Dozens of women supposedly attend parties he throws when he visits Djeme for various holidays. All daughters of prominent officials who’ve relocated to Djeme along with Pharaoh. No provincials from backwaters like Abdju or Pi–Ramesses, though.”

  Eight priests carrying the new barque shrine on their shoulders emerged from the temple. Good. No more conversing with Tjuyu. The flower–bedecked god resided inside. A priest in a jackal mask, portraying the god Wepwawet, “the Opener of Ways,” began moving up the Processional Way, loudly proclaiming, as herald, the coming of Osiris.

  Pentawere beckoned to me and, after slightly hesitating, I joined him in the procession. Harwa gave me a scathing glance, but he apparently feared to challenge Pharaoh’s son. He didn’t ask his daughter to walk with us. Tjuyu’s scowl spoke volumes. And likely cast into doubt in her mind everything I’d told her about Pentawere and me. The three of us followed the herald. Behind came two priests swinging burning containers of incense, then the barque, then more priests with incense. After them strolled temple chantresses voicing ancient songs, some banging drums, others crotal bells, still more ivory hand clappers. Half a dozen rattled sistrums. Tjuyu led the chantresses, still scowling.

  “There are three parts to the ceremony, Majesty,” Harwa explained. “We first celebrate Osiris’ kingship, then his death, then his resurrection.”

  Spectators fell to their knees and called out to the god as the barque shrine passed. We drew even with Neferhotep’s stela. All at once a dozen men rushed from the crowd a few paces behind us and attacked the shrine. Women screamed. A dozen men came forward to defend it. All were carrying clubs and began wielding them. Wood banged on wood. Wepwawet thrust himself into the midst of the fray.

  “It’s a ritual battle, representing the struggle between good and evil,” Harwa told us. “Wepwawet is overthrowing and subduing Osiris’ enemies. This battle represents the fight at Neydt, where Seth killed Osiris.”

  Bloody men began wobbling from the melee.

  “Occasionally fighters get carried away and forget it’s only a ritual,” Harwa said.

  Wepwawet cried out. The uninjured fighters melted into the crowd. He resumed his place at the front of the procession and we began to move again. But now, every so often, one of the chantresses stopped and keened, bent and grabbed a handful of dirt, tossed it on her head, then dashed into the crowd. After a moment she reappeared, joined the rest of the chantresses, keened again.

  “The chantresses are reenacting Isis’ search for Osiris’ body, cut into fourteen pieces by Seth and buried throughout the valley,” Harwa told us.

  I noted that Tjuyu was the only chantress who didn’t go into the crowd. Too vain to spoil her hair with dirt.

  We eventually reached Osiris’ tomb. It looked different by daylight, less spooky. The cliffs delineating the high desert loomed not far away, their faces scarred and broken and cut with wadis, tinged with early morning gold, with great slopes of sand at their bases. The crumbling tombs Pentawere and I had wandered through the night before beyond Osiris’ were plainly visibl
e. I glimpsed stelae we’d freed from the covering sand, shining white in the sunlight.

  “Now we’ll bury Osiris in his grave, Majesty,” Harwa said. “We’ll ritually embalm him. He’ll rest a bit, then be reborn, be returned to sexual potency, and be revitalized by the eye of Horus, his son and champion.”

  The priests set the barque down. With great fanfare, Harwa lifted the flower–bedecked statue of Osiris from inside the barque. Two priests unsealed the door into the tomb at the bottom of the steps and two others censed the opening with incense. Then Harwa and Pentawere carried the statue into the darkness.

  Everyone who’d followed us along the Processional Way spread throughout the cemetery of the first kings, some poking around, some talking with others, some intently eyeing the opening of Osiris’ tomb. I was glad Pentawere and I had visited these graves last night. With so many people milling about they’d lost their sense of mystery. No one was acting with any sort of reverence in their vicinity, but I supposed few of them knew anything about the kings buried here. If they were gullible enough to believe an ancient king’s grave was actually Osiris’ there was no sense trying to convince them otherwise. I tried to imagine my ancestress Benerib standing on this plain watching the interments of her uncle Narmer and husband Aha, and Merneith, burying her brother–husband Djer in this very grave. The crowds for his burial must have been enormous – he’d ordered more than three hundred servants and officials executed to serve him in the Afterlife. His son Den must have brought a significant number of guards to Abdju to herd those destined to die, and priests to kill them, and common workmen to lay them in their graves and cover them, not to mention priests to conduct the funeral ceremony and paid mourners and musicians and officials beholden to Den and the porters who’d carried goods to fill the grave. I suspected every resident of Abdju and the nearby valley had attended as well.