The Assassins of Isis (23 page)
Read The Assassins of Isis Online
Authors: P. C. Doherty
Paser hurried ahead, taking them along a colonnaded walk and across more gardens, fragrant, delicious places with rich vines, their swollen purple grapes hanging from trellises fixed to high posts. They passed the great pool of purity, shaded by palm trees, and through an orchard of fig trees where temple acolytes were using trained baboons to bring the fruit down from the overhanging branches. Occasionally the gardens would give way to small meadows where sacred flocks grazed. They passed other buildings, storehouses, slaughter sheds, not stopping until they reached a stone wall guarded by sentries which led them into the library courtyard.
The lintels and pillars of the great cedar door leading into the House of Books were covered in brilliantly coloured hieroglyphs and paintings depicting scribes and scholars, reading and writing, or in debate with their teachers. Paser unlocked the doors and led them into a small antechamber with a floor of Lebanese wood. Light was provided by spacious windows and specially capped alabaster jars placed in niches. The House of Books, a long narrow room, was on the second floor. The sycamore shutters were thrown open but the windows were barred and protected by a wire mesh to deter thieves. The walls on either side were covered with exquisitely carved racks, pigeon holes and shelves to hold the sacred manuscripts. Down the centre of the room stretched a line of tables, with cushions before them so scholars could squat to read and write. Each table bore a writing tray with pens and jars of blue, red and green ink. The smell of gum, resin, parchment and scrubbed leather seeped everywhere.
A young lector priest came out of a side chamber.
âDivine Father.' He bowed towards Paser.
âThe library is empty?'
âOf course, Divine Father.'
Paser gestured towards Amerotke.
âCould you tell the lord judge what manuscripts General Suten studied? Do you have them assembled?'
The lector priest nodded, his smooth round face eager to please. âMy lord judge,' he continued quickly, âGeneral Suten was a great soldier. He was always eager to read the chronicles and history of Egypt: the great exploits and achievements of its army, as well as the campaign both he and his father fought in.'
âSo General Suten's father was also a soldier?'
âOh yes,' the acolyte priest gabbled, âand very proud of him.'
âWhat else did he read?' Amerotke asked. âTell me what he asked for when he came here.'
âHe would look at military records.' The Keeper of the Books was puzzled, and stared at Paser. âHe would always insist on coming up here alone; his valet and scribe had to stay in the hall below.'
âDo you have any records of the Valley of the Kings?' Amerotke asked. âIf I was a thief, a robber, and I wished to break into the tombs of the great ones â¦'
âMy lord, my lord,' the Keeper of the Books became agitated, fingers fluttering like the wings of a bird, âwe have some records, but â¦'
Amerotke pointed to a table. âThen bring them here, as well as anything General Suten studied.'
The lector priest hurried off. Shufoy wandered over to one of the windows, whilst Paser went to sit in the high-backed chair just within the doorway. Amerotke squatted down. The lector priest, eager to please this grim-faced judge, hurried up with baskets of manuscripts and papyri. At first Amerotke felt excited, sure he was on the verge of discovering something, yet the more he read, the deeper the
disappointment grew. The lector priest was correct. Suten's manuscripts were nothing more than temple histories and chronicles, whilst the records of the Valley of the Kings were merely lists of funereal goods and the various liturgies used in the burial of the great ones. He sharply demanded of the Keeper of the Books if there were further documents. The lector priest, highly nervous, shook his head. Amerotke hid his disappointment. If he had found records providing detailed information regarding the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens, his vague suspicions about Lord Impuki would have hardened. There was nothing.
disappointment grew. The lector priest was correct. Suten's manuscripts were nothing more than temple histories and chronicles, whilst the records of the Valley of the Kings were merely lists of funereal goods and the various liturgies used in the burial of the great ones. He sharply demanded of the Keeper of the Books if there were further documents. The lector priest, highly nervous, shook his head. Amerotke hid his disappointment. If he had found records providing detailed information regarding the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens, his vague suspicions about Lord Impuki would have hardened. There was nothing.
Amerotke watched a butterfly, which had somehow come through the wire mesh, flutter like a sparkle of light and move back towards the window. He recalled how, when he was a boy, he used to collect hardened twigs to make a broom. Sometimes he wouldn't find enough, and that was similar to the problem now. He'd picked up bits and pieces but nothing substantial. He demanded to see the roll of index which listed every manuscript held by the temple library; this too revealed nothing. He left the chamber and walked down into the hallway. Paser came hurrying after him, more than aware that this judge was losing his temper. Amerotke stood in the shadow of the doorway, staring out across the temple gardens. He assured Paser he would be safe enough with his own guards, that he would wander for a while and then leave. He asked the priest to give his thanks to the Keeper of Books, and walked over to the shade of a cluster of palms which grew round a pool, a place of green darkness, cool and refreshing against the broiling morning sun. He sat down on a rock at the edge of the pool and watched the red and silver carp dart amongst the reeds. A pair of grey doves with black collars came and alighted on the far side and began to peck amongst the stones. Somewhere in the branches above sparrows chattered, whilst the distant lowing of the sacred cattle in the slaughter pens echoed ominously. Amerotke recalled
the prayer he had tried to recite just before he had fallen asleep, and now intoned it, loud enough for Shufoy to hear, but not audible to the guards who sat amongst the trees chattering to each other.
the prayer he had tried to recite just before he had fallen asleep, and now intoned it, loud enough for Shufoy to hear, but not audible to the guards who sat amongst the trees chattering to each other.
If you can hear me in the place where you are,
Tell the Lady of Eternity, the daughter of Truth,
About my petition
I have committed no abomination against you!
I have not opposed your will over any matter.
Speak to me then in truth,
Clear the clouds of my darkness.
Tell the Lady of Eternity, the daughter of Truth,
About my petition
I have committed no abomination against you!
I have not opposed your will over any matter.
Speak to me then in truth,
Clear the clouds of my darkness.
âAre you so confused?' Shufoy whispered.
âI really thought that the House of Books would have yielded something. I thought I was making progress,' Amerotke replied. âBut the question remains, who killed Mafdet? Who is the Khetra? Where did that evil Watcher at the Gates obtain his information about the Valley of the Kings? How does he recruit and control the Sebaus?' He sighed. âI still haven't discovered the truth about General Suten's death. Shufoy, the wall still rises dark and impassable before me.'
âHow will you resolve General Suten's death?'
âI don't know. The scales of Ma'at will be used and filled with probabilities, then I shall watch which side will dip. Did Heby murder his master? Or is it more probable that General Suten tried to find a way out of his own terrors?'
One of the guards laughed, the sound echoing across the grove, and the doves, startled, flew away in a flurry of colour. What, Amerotke wondered, do I do next?
Â
Nadif, standard-bearer in the Medjay police, was also thinking about General Suten's death. Armed with his staff of office, a red and black cloth protecting his head and neck against the morning sun, he was striding along the
causeway towards General Suten's mansion. He had left the baboon at home, as the animal had fallen sick. He paused to clean some dirt from his sandal and flick the dust from his long white kilt, then tightened the embroidered belt around his waist and went to stand under the shade of a sycamore tree. He stared into the distance. He was following the same route he had taken the night the alarm had been raised. Of course, the great thoroughfare was different now, dusty and hot. The city markets had been open for hours and the processions of peasants and traders had long disappeared. They would stay in the city until the day's business was done and the heat had begun to cool; by then Nadif would have finished his tour of duty. The thoroughfare was empty except for the lonely pedlar striding along, a merchant stringing a pack of animals, and the occasional cart pulled by sluggish oxen. Nadif stood and watched them go. He would never forget the evening General Suten had died, those vicious horned vipers coiling around the corpse. It was no way for a soldier to die! Nadif shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the skiffs along the Nile, the fishermen, armed with their nets or long pointed harpoons, eager to catch a fish or bring down one of the water fowl which nested in the thick reedy banks of the river.
causeway towards General Suten's mansion. He had left the baboon at home, as the animal had fallen sick. He paused to clean some dirt from his sandal and flick the dust from his long white kilt, then tightened the embroidered belt around his waist and went to stand under the shade of a sycamore tree. He stared into the distance. He was following the same route he had taken the night the alarm had been raised. Of course, the great thoroughfare was different now, dusty and hot. The city markets had been open for hours and the processions of peasants and traders had long disappeared. They would stay in the city until the day's business was done and the heat had begun to cool; by then Nadif would have finished his tour of duty. The thoroughfare was empty except for the lonely pedlar striding along, a merchant stringing a pack of animals, and the occasional cart pulled by sluggish oxen. Nadif stood and watched them go. He would never forget the evening General Suten had died, those vicious horned vipers coiling around the corpse. It was no way for a soldier to die! Nadif shaded his eyes against the sun, watching the skiffs along the Nile, the fishermen, armed with their nets or long pointed harpoons, eager to catch a fish or bring down one of the water fowl which nested in the thick reedy banks of the river.
Nadif had followed what had happened to General Suten's household with great interest. He had even attended the court when Lord Valu had introduced Hefau, the snake man, who claimed he had met Heby the night before the general died. Nadif unslung his water bottle and crouched with his back to the tree; he took a long sip and shook his head. On that particular evening he had been in charge of this thoroughfare, patrolling it up and down. He was certain no one had come or gone from General Suten's house, and surely he would remember a character like Hefau, carrying his sack heavy with snakes? If he had come across the river Nadif would have seen his boat, whilst if he had walked along the path, Nadif would have glimpsed him, sooner or
later. In fact Nadif was sure the snake man was lying, but why? Hefau was now in the Medjay barracks. Nadif would have loved to question him, but the snake man was under the protection of the court, so the policeman had discussed the matter most closely with his wife. They had argued about it the previous evening whilst they shared a dish of stewed lampreys and a jug of rich dark beer.
later. In fact Nadif was sure the snake man was lying, but why? Hefau was now in the Medjay barracks. Nadif would have loved to question him, but the snake man was under the protection of the court, so the policeman had discussed the matter most closely with his wife. They had argued about it the previous evening whilst they shared a dish of stewed lampreys and a jug of rich dark beer.
âYou're just being arrogant,' his wife had taunted. âYou think you see everybody.'
âNo, no, listen. I patrol between the fifth mooring place and the eighth mooring place. I know who I saw that night. My eyes are sharp â¦'
On and on the argument had run. Now Nadif got to his feet as he heard the sound of voices. He stepped from beneath the shade and stared back towards the Beautiful Gate. A funeral procession had left the city and was making its way down to one of the mooring places. The procession was led by a group of servants carrying cakes, flowers, jars of water, bottles of liquor and vials of perfume. Nadif forgot his own problem and stood fascinated as the procession passed him by. The servants were also carrying furniture, painted boxes, folding stools, armchairs and even a bed. He reckoned this must be an important funeral, because a second procession of servants brought weapons, masks, helmets and even pieces of armour. Next came the mourners, led by the Master of Ceremonies dressed in a panther skin. On either side of him servants sprinkled the ground with milk and scented water from golden spoons. Finally came the hearse, shaped like a boat, mounted upon a sledge drawn by a team of red and white oxen. On the boat statues of Isis and Nephthys stood next to the closed cabin which concealed the coffin casket.
Nadif liked nothing better than a funeral. He watched it go, taking detailed notice of how many mourners there were, what treasures they carried, and the mournful songs they chanted. The procession passed in a cloud of dust.
Nadif was about to continue his patrol when he noticed something glinting in the sparse grass on the far side of the trackway. Had someone in the funeral procession dropped a precious ornament? He hurried over and picked up a silver filigree chain holding a pendant, a golden hawk with its wings extended. He studied this carefully. He had seen it before, surely? He crouched down and racked his memory. Yes, that was right, on the night General Suten had died, his valet Heby had worn it round his neck. But Heby was a prisoner; what was his necklace doing out on the trackway?
Nadif was about to continue his patrol when he noticed something glinting in the sparse grass on the far side of the trackway. Had someone in the funeral procession dropped a precious ornament? He hurried over and picked up a silver filigree chain holding a pendant, a golden hawk with its wings extended. He studied this carefully. He had seen it before, surely? He crouched down and racked his memory. Yes, that was right, on the night General Suten had died, his valet Heby had worn it round his neck. But Heby was a prisoner; what was his necklace doing out on the trackway?
Nadif edged forward, pushing aside the coarse grass and bushes. He glimpsed a dagger encrusted with dried blood and plucked this up. The blade was of fine bronze, the handle of ivory. He placed it in his sack and, now alarmed, hurried along the pathway. He forgot about the heat and sun, the cries of the fowlers and fishermen. He must reach General Suten's mansion! He sighed with relief as he glimpsed the guards at the gate, but instead of approaching them, he went down the narrow trackway which ran alongside the curtain wall and hurried along the dusty path, under the shade from the palm trees, the coarse grass sticking out to scratch his legs. He passed a guard resting in the shade; the man was busy with his water bottle and didn't bother to get up but shouted that all was well. Nadif, cursing the laziness of these recruits, hurried on. He rounded the corner and another guard resting in the shade scrambled to his feet. Nadif waved him away. Everything seemed calm, but the policeman prided himself on having a nose for mischief. He hurried on around the next corner. There was no guard!
âHello!' he shouted. No reply. Nadif paused. The sun was very high now, dazzling the trackway, with the wall of the mansion to his right and a line of date palms to his left. A hot, dusty place where flies buzzed and, in the branches above, a jay chattered. Nadif caught his breath; it was just
like this out in the Red Lands, he thought, going up one of those lonely rocky gullies with the sun beating down like a hammer. He drew his dagger and walked on, his right shoulder brushing the wall. âHello!' he called again. Again no sound.
like this out in the Red Lands, he thought, going up one of those lonely rocky gullies with the sun beating down like a hammer. He drew his dagger and walked on, his right shoulder brushing the wall. âHello!' he called again. Again no sound.
He was halfway along the path when the buzzing of flies drew him to the dark red pool on the edge of the coarse grass. Nadif dropped his leather bag and water bottle; staff in one hand, dagger in the other, he moved into the shade of the trees. Squinting against the dazzling rays of sunlight he moved cautiously, but despite his care he almost stumbled over the sprawled corpse. A member of the guard, by the colour of his striped headdress, but he carried no weapons. Nadif turned the body over and stifled a moan at the bloody gash which tore the man's throat from ear to ear. He stared around, rising to a half-crouch. The date palm trees clustered thick, the bushes and gorse pressing in like a fence, a grove which could conceal a small army. Nadif moved back to the trackway and looked for further signs, but they were impossible to detect. He studied the wall and noticed the dried blood stain on the uneven mortar. Someone had climbed down there, grazing an arm or a leg. Whoever it was, and Nadif had his own suspicions, had caught the guard unawares and slit his throat. Nadif hurried around and hammered on the side gate. It swung open, and a sleepy-eyed soldier looked out.
Other books
Moon Crossed (Werewolf Hunter Series): Season 1 (Episodes 1-6) (Crescent Hunter) by Bella Roccaforte
Blood of Gold by Duncan McGeary
Hold Still by Lynn Steger Strong
The Empty Family by Colm Tóibín
Too Salty: Ain't a Damn Thang Changed (Part 6) by Williams, Aleta
Home Is Where Hank Is (Cowboys To The Rescue 1) by Martha Shields
A Death On The Wolf by Frazier, G. M.
Welcome to Dog Beach by Lisa Greenwald
Tethered 02 - Conjure by Jennifer Snyder
Softly Grow the Poppies by Audrey Howard
