Murder in the Place of Anubis (20 page)

Another object of great value, this heart amulet. Did it belong to Hormin, or to the Place of Anubis? He was reluctant to admit that he might never know. Hormin had been prosperous, mostly because he hoarded and no doubt connived in sly ways to obtain more than his fair share of wealth. The scribe had owned that broad collar. Yet he couldn't make the mistake of assuming he also owned the unguent and the heart amulet.

 "Abu, we're going to the treasury of the god Amun." Meren glanced at the sun. It had already sailed over its  high point and was descending rapidly. "Who do you see at the treasury?"

"A lowly Pure One, my lord."

 "It's as well. In that ants' nest the powerful ones  wouldn't know anything of our Hormin. Not that they would tell me if they did."

 He sailed across the river on the royal ferry, taking  his chariot with him. Soon he was driving down the great processional way lined with ram-headed sphinxes, the pylon gates looming larger and larger until they dwarfed even the largest of the temples of the lesser gods. Gold-and-electrum-cased obelisks glowed in sunlight. Crowds of priests and temple servants, supplicants, and officials made way for him.

 Meren craned his neck back until he could see the flagpoles with their narrow banners hanging limply in the stillness of the fading day. He hadn't been to the temple of Amun often since the court had returned from the heretic's capital. Each time he did, he felt as if he should wear armor and watch for cobras in dark corners. The High Priest of Amun disliked him almost as much as he hated the king.

 Abu, who drove the chariot, walked the horses beneath the monumental pylons. The closer they came to the temple, the more priests they encountered—richly dressed in the whitest linens and in electrum and precious stones. Those of higher rank, mostly noblemen in gleaming, bejeweled raiment, advanced upon their way with the aid of several fan-bearing servitors. Weaving obsequiously through the numerous gemlike processions were the ordinary priests, the Pure Ones, who conducted the everyday affairs of the temple, such as providing food for the bureaucracy and teaching boys in the temple school.

 Abu left the chariot in care of the temple guards who had greeted them and allowed them to pass with salutes.  Inside the temple walls Meren skirted the temple of Khons, son of Amun, and crossed several courts to a long, vaulted building to the rear of the sacred lake. Beyond the lake lay the temple itself, shrouded in its protective curtain of stone and precious metal. Passing the sentries who flanked the double doors of the treasury, Meren walked into the antechamber of the building. He was about to ask Abu to find the priest they sought when he heard his name spoken quietly from the shadows of a recess that held a votive statue of the king's father, Amunhotep the Magnificent.

"Meren, dear cousin. You really shouldn't be here."

 It was always the same. He turned abruptly, and felt  as if he were looking into the polished bronze surface of a mirror. He faced a man who looked more charioteer than priest—tall, lean, and taut about the shoulders and legs, as though he spent most of his time in the exercise yard rather than the temple. Yet this man wore a finely spun linen overrobe that crossed over his shoulders in pleats and hung to his ankles and a heavy square pectoral necklace bearing the figure of Amun in electrum and turquoise. Heavy wristbands of the same materials matched the bracelets on his ankles.

"Greetings, Ebana."

 His cousin leaned on one wall of the niche and gave  him one of those priestly smiles from beneath a long, elaborately plaited wig. Meren had been there when Ebana began to practice priestly demeanor. He had been eleven and his cousin but a year older. A glance at Abu caused the charioteer to fade away in search of the Pure One. Meren approached Ebana, who hadn't moved.

 When he was close enough to speak without others  overhearing, he said, "I haven't seen you at court."

 Ebana studied Meren quietly for a few moments. "I  thought our resemblance would fade with the years, but we still look as if we shared the same womb."

"People know our differences."

 "By the good god Amun, are there differences?"  Ebana turned his head so that Meren could see more clearly the scar that ran from his temple, across his left cheek, and down his neck.

 Meren shook his head. "I tried to warn you that night."

"So you say, but still Akhenaten set his minions upon me when I was in my bed, sleeping."

 "We've rowed upstream like this too many times,"  Meren said. He sighed and threw out his hands in supplication. "I have sworn on my
ka.
I've begged you to believe me. Why can't you—"

 "Why can't I believe you?" Ebana thrust himself  away from the wall and stuck his face close to Meren's. "Bloody gods, cousin. Perhaps it's because I saw my wife and son die that night. No, too light a reason. Perhaps it's because I spent a few endless nights having my  ribs broken. No, I have it. I can't believe you because I'm stupid. Yes, that's it"

 Meren placed his hand on the folds of Ebana's robe  where they crossed over his chest and gently shoved him.

 Ebana allowed himself to be moved, but whispered  violently as he crossed his arms and gave Meren another of his beatific smiles. "The only reason you're still alive, dear cousin, is because you interceded for me with the young king."

"All I want is peace between us."

 "I'm a Servant of the God, dear cousin," Ebana  hissed. "I am one of the few who may perform the secret Rite of the House of the Morning. I am privileged to enter the sanctuary of the god Amun. And I remember how it was while you wallowed in perverse sin in the heretic's court—priests and their families cast out and starving, their retainers and slaves and the workmen who depended upon their patronage, all starving. Weeds grew in the forecourt of the sanctuary. Weeds! So don't ask me for peace, Meren. You won't get it."

 Ebana whirled away from him and stalked down the  corridor, his white robes fluttering out to reveal the kilt he wore beneath the transparent garment. Meren clamped his will down on old memories and renewed grief. He must find Abu before word spread to the High Priest that he was inside the temple walls.

 The treasury consisted of a series of long, narrow  rooms flanking a central hall. Each room had only one entrance and no windows. Guards lined the hall and the columned entry foyer beyond the antechamber. Abu appeared in the foyer, ushering a priest.

Shaven head gleaming, his steps dragging, the priest stalled beside a column. Meren watched as the priest muttered to Abu, his hands waving frantically. He shook his head until Meren feared he would make himself dizzy, then scrambled back inside the treasury.

Abu returned to Meren and they went outside without speaking. Once submerged in the crowds of temple servants and priests, Abu gave Meren a rueful glance.

"He saw you with Lord Ebana."

 "And he didn't want to be seen talking to me,"  Meren said.

"His superior, you see."

 Meren stopped walking, and the crowd surged around  them. "Your Pure One serves under Ebana?"

"Aye, my lord, for the past three weeks."

 Meren began to walk again. The Pure One who had received Hormin the day before he died served under Ebana.

"And the
qeres?"
Meren asked.

 "Hormin delivered tax-concession documents to the  Pure One at the treasury workroom behind the vaults. The Pure One says that he didn't notice what Hormin did afterward because he was busy reviewing the documents. All he remembers is that Hormin wandered into the vaults and was thrown out by the guards before he could go three steps."

 "He's certain Hormin got no farther, not anywhere  near the vault containing the
qeres?"

 "We visited the one where the unguent is housed. None is missing, although one of the jars is half empty. They use it in the Rite of the House of the Morning when the god is fed and dressed."

 "And my cousin is a Servant of the God, who may  perform this rite."

Abu said nothing as they approached the chariot.

 Meren glanced back at the temple complex. The setting sun turned painted and gold-covered surfaces into yellow fire. He knew that the brightness without contrasted with the cool blackness inside the sanctuary. The temple still bore scars where Akhenaten's soldiers and heretic priests had gouged out the names of Amun and any other god but the Aten.

 Ebana wasn't the only priest who couldn't forgive.  The High Priest and his allies, they could be behind the queen's latest treason. If it could be proved that she'd tried to bring the detested Hittites to the throne, the king would suffer, perhaps lose power to the priesthood of Amun.

 As they drove toward the riverbank, Meren examined the possibility that somehow Hormin had been linked to the priests and to the queen. Yet however much he disliked the coincidence of the unguent, he couldn't bring himself to believe that so lowly an official as Hormin could be of use to either the queen or Ebana. He would have to learn more to be certain.

By the time he returned home, he was weary. He'd spent the day searching for details, had obtained them, and yet felt no nearer a solution to this murder. He felt as if he'd dropped a faience vessel and tried to put it back together, only to discover none of the pieces fit.

 He discussed the reassignment of the queen's servants  with Abu. Then Remi insisted upon a game of hunt-the-lion, so it was dark by the time he'd sent the boy to bed and had his own evening meal. Meren summoned his body servants and tried to take his thoughts from the murder by indulging in a shower. As a woman poured water over his shoulders in the bathing chamber, he deliberately thought of the letter from his eldest daughter, Tefnut, that had cheered him. It had been waiting for him when he came home.

 She expected a child in the winter. At last. A child of  his oldest child. Perhaps now Tefnut wouldn't resent Kysen so much. He'd tried to explain to her about sons,  but she'd been so young when he'd brought Kysen home. Now Bener, the middle one, she had liked Kysen at once, for he climbed palm trees with her and stole dates and pomegranates for her. And the youngest, Isis, had never felt threatened by a son, for she assumed that everyone loved her, and they usually did.

 He donned a kilt and robe and went to his office to  receive a report from the men watching Imsety and his mother. One of the men on duty still hadn't reported, although he'd been due to arrive since sunset. Annoyed at the delay, Meren sent a messenger before settling down to some serious juggling. He bolted the door to his office and rummaged in a cedar and ivory box set in a niche in the wall. He withdrew four balls of stuffed leather decorated with gold and silver gilding—his newest set.

 If he didn't juggle, he wouldn't be able to allow his  mind to rest. The only way he was going to solve this mystery was to permit his thoughts to germinate like barley seeds. Trying to juggle with four balls instead of three would require the concentration of his entire heart. He'd consulted with the royal jugglers in secret, and knew he had to keep two balls juggled in only one hand. He grasped a pair in each hand.

 Sending the balls in his right hand bouncing, he  tossed and caught, tossed and caught. Then he began all over again with his left. After a while he tried it with both hands at once, and dropped all of them. Then he remembered to stagger his starts as the jugglers had instructed, and began again. He'd just managed to juggle two balls in each hand without dropping them when he heard someone running outside.

A gilded ball bounced off his nose. "Curse it."

He grabbed the balls and threw them into the cedar casket. As the steps neared his door, he opened it. Abu  saluted carelessly and gulped in a deep breath.

"Lord, they're gone."

 "Imsety and the woman?" Meren barely noticed Abu's confirmation. Wrath snaked into his belly.  "How!"

"I'm not sure, lord, but the guards are—they're—"

 "Say it, damn you." Meren braced himself for what he might hear.

"They're sleeping."

He stared at Abu. "My charioteers are asleep?"

"Some sleeping potion, lord. In beer, we think."

 It was one of the few times in his life that he bellowed. The household burst into action at the sound. Meren strode around his office, unable to keep still in his fury. The captain of charioteers rushed in, wiping the crumbs of his evening meal from his mouth.

 Meren barked out orders for a search, directed the  physician to attend the drugged men, and generally made sure his men would never take beer from a suspected murderer again. When he was finished, everyone but Abu retreated, thankful that they still possessed their skins and their heads.

 "Abu, set a watch on the river in the direction of the artisans' village."

"But lord, surely even Imsety wouldn't be foolish enough to sail by night. The sandbars, the hippos—"

 "A while ago I was sure my charioteers wouldn't allow themselves to be put to sleep by a possible murderer."

"Aye, lord."

 "If they've gone to the village and they find  Kysen—"

 Meren lapsed into silence. He wrapped a hand around  the back of his ebony chair and squeezed until it appeared as if the bones of his knuckles would push  through the skin of his hand. "If they find Kysen—"

 The only confessions Kysen forced out of Thesh that afternoon were hundreds of minor transgressions involving tomb paintings, coffins, and statues for unreported customers. To his surprise, once Thesh admitted one sin, he burst forth with the others as a breached dike leaked water. Unfortunately, the scribe seemed to consider the wrath of the vizier a greater threat than Kysen had anticipated. When he threatened to reveal the villagers' dealings if Thesh didn't confess to the murder, the poor scribe burst into tears but remained stubbornly silent, and Kysen withdrew the threat before Thesh fainted.

 So now here he was, back at his perch on the roof of  Thesh's house, sitting up all night hugging his newfound views on the villagers in hopes of spying some illicit activity. He still suspected Thesh—and would until he proved who'd done the murder—but his view of the situation had changed after he'd overheard that conversation with Useramun.