Year of the Hyenas (12 page)

Many years had
passed
since the “piercing,” or excavation, of the tomb had been accomplished;
now the team labored on the lavish paintings of rituals and spells that
covered its walls, ceilings, and galleries. Because Pharaoh Ramses III
had been blessed with so long a reign, generations of village
tomb-workers had lived and died without ever working on another royal
tomb. These men, including Paneb, were in fact the sons of those who
had started the work.

Inside the
large tent
where the men slept nights, Paneb sat cross-legged, surrounded by his
men. They carefully cleaned their brushes and reed pens, and sharpened
their metal tools. This was a nightly chore never entrusted to
servants, done even before dinner was prepared; the men’s tools were
the most precious things they owned.

The boy Rami
sat
closest to Paneb. Though he was the son of the scribe Neferhotep, he
was a large lad, big-boned like the foreman, and shared Paneb’s gold
eyes and wide, determined mouth.

“Paneb?”

“What is it?”

“Have I done
well with
the gridding of the figures this week?” Rami was charged with creating
large grids on the painted gypsum surfaces of the tomb, snapping
strings imbued with red chalk into precisely measured squares. This
allowed the master painters to map the designs from smaller test
paintings their fathers had created on papyrus years before.

“Yes.”

The boy looked
at him
significantly. “I’m fifteen next month.”

Paneb drew a
whetstone
across the blade of his chisel. “Well?”

“Am I old
enough,
then, to start outlining the figures? Not the important ones, of
course, but those at the edges of the tomb, or on the backs of the
pillars? The ones no one will see?”

“But you’ve no
experience in it.”

“I’ve been
practicing.
Here, I’ll show you!”

Eagerly, Rami
took
some limestone shards from his straw knapsack. The boy had made a
variety of practice strokes on them. Some of the lines tapered to fine
points, some twisted into curls and circles, while still others ended
in sharp, blunt edges.

“Very
impressive,”
Paneb said.

Rami beamed.

“But these are
short
pen-lengths,” Paneb continued. “Can you sustain such a stroke for the
span of an entire wall, to keep the reed pen steady all its length?”

“I know I can.”

“Can you draw,
as
Aaphat here can”—Paneb winked at the tomb’s master painter—“the line of
a pharaoh’s lip, to catch only the hint of a smile? Or a god’s eye that
peers into a world we cannot see? Or the curve of a queen’s delicate
fingers grasping the stem of a lotus blossom?”

Rami’s mouth
dropped
in dismay. “All I wanted was to outline a few images,” he said
dolefully, “not to finish the entire tomb.”

Paneb’s sudden
yelp of
laughter echoed loudly in the Great Place. It was the first time since
his aunt’s death that his men had heard any mirthful sound from him.
They laughed with him.

Though Paneb
had once
beaten a tomb-worker to death for insubordination, his men adored him
for the thoughtful kindnesses he lavished on them. They remembered the
time when his team had completed a task in advance of its deadline and
he’d broken into the stores for extra rations of beer and oil, heedless
of Neferhotep’s protests. Another time, Paneb had traded his own copper
chisels for half an oxen because he thought his team deserved it. They
had trumpeted with laughter when he had requisitioned new tools the
following day from the apoplectic Neferhotep.

In fact, his
men loved
him as much for his prodigious faults as for his virtues. And chief of
these, whether fault or virtue, was his prowess with women. The fact
that sometimes Paneb even made a conquest of their own wives did
nothing to dampen the men’s loyalty; they would lay down their lives
for him.

“So you’ll let
me do
some outlining?” Rami continued to press the foreman.

“We’ll see,”
said
Paneb, clamping his hand around the boy’s neck.

Like any lad,
Rami was
convinced these words actually meant “yes,” and his wide smile was a
mirror of Paneb’s own.

Then Rami made
a
mistake. He dropped his head and whispered to the foreman, “I’m… I’m
sorry about Hetephras, Paneb. I’ve not gotten a chance to say it.”

It was as if a
gate
had suddenly slammed and locked in Paneb’s face. His eyes grew small;
his wide mouth became stubborn.

“Damn you!” he
growled. “I told you men never to speak of it again, didn’t I?”

His angry gaze
raked
the team so keenly they dropped their heads to stare at the sands in
front of them. Still swearing, Paneb thrust his pack of tools onto his
shoulders and rose abruptly to begin the journey back to the village.
He strode quickly so none could catch him.

Rami was
struck
senseless. He venerated Paneb, loved him better than his own father.
Seeing Paneb trudge angrily down the trail caused the boy’s shoulders
to sag with grief. As his treacherous eyes began to overflow, he
hastily packed up the rest of his tools. Nothing had been right since
the morning Hetephras had died. Nothing.

IT WAS DARKwhen Paneb passed the
Medjay tower where Qar was stationed. He waved to the policeman, but
did not stop. He wanted no company, for he was by then chastising
himself for his mean-spirited treatment of Rami. The boy had been only
trying to voice the concern that all his men felt.

Another few
paces and
Paneb had forgiven the lad. He would make it up to him by allowing the
boy to complete a few outlining chores in the tomb. But he chose not to
inform Rami of this benediction until the next day. Paneb simply hadn’t
the strength to endure the lad’s glee that evening. Tired in his soul,
and sad as death over his aunt’s tragic end, he was not cheered even by
the welcoming smells of the village’s cooking fires.

But at the
village
walls, shielded by the dark, someone waited at the gateway. He peered
closely and saw that it was Hunro, leaning indolently against the
lintel. Although she had attained an age when most Egyptian women were
beginning to fade, the years had made no inroads on her charms. She was
not beautiful in any classic sense, being a tall, thin woman with hair
bluntly cropped. But her gaze was bold, full of sordid promise, and her
smile with its overbite was enticing. Though he had known hundreds of
other women more beautiful than she, all of them had ultimately bored
him in time. Their breasts and lips became dulled by familiarity, their
movements, however artful, predictable.

But Paneb had
never
tired of Hunro. As they aged, their passion was revitalized by her
constant inventiveness, which in turn became dangerous in its
recklessness. He felt his loins stirring simply looking at her. It had
been more than a month since he’d last had her. Even the memory of his
aunt’s death could not diminish his mounting lust; Hunro was exactly
what he needed that night to drive away the sadness and the demons.

“I should have
known
you’d be waiting for me,” he said, setting his tool sack on the ground.

She hooted
scornfully,
her voice high and feathery. “Oh? How do you know I’m not waiting for
my husband?”

“Because I
know
Neferhotep sent a servant to tell you he’d be late.”

Her laugh was
a
little, liquid, gloating sound. “I hate it when I’m so obvious.”

His voice was
a
whisper in her ear. “You can’t help it. It’s your nature.”

In the dark
her eyes
flashed a warning, even as her sharp teeth flashed in her smile.
“You’re a pig,” she said.

“That’s
my
nature.”

She laughed
again,
louder than before. He pressed against her. Paneb could feel the heat
she radiated, and he seized her in his arms. Hunro had doused herself
in a heavy sandalwood perfume, his favorite scent. He brought his mouth
to hers. Her lips parted and his tongue began to probe her mouth.
Abruptly she bit down hard on his lip. He pushed her away with a grunt,
wincing.

“That’s for
taking me
for granted,” she said. “And for bringing me no gift.”

He ran his
tongue over
the torn flesh of his lip, tasting blood. Tempted to strike her,
instead he bent down to his sack, feeling in the dark for something
inside. He found what he sought, and drew forth a small object wrapped
in soiled linen. “Who says I bring nothing?”

Her eyes were
greedy
as she reached for the thing. Quickly she undid the cloth that bound
it, gasping when she saw it, for it gleamed brightly even in the dark.

“Oh… !” she
breathed.
“Where did you ever get it? In the bazaars of the eastern city? Have
you been across the river again?”

His eyes
became blank.
“No,” he said. “Old Amen-meses came into camp again.”

“The merchant
from
Kush? It must have been dreadfully expensive.”

“Aren’t you
worth it?”

Paneb slipped
the
bracelet on her wrist. Its weight made her dizzy, and Hunro held it up
to the feeble torchlight shining from the village parapets. The thing
outshone even the fires, a magnificent cuff of gold covering most of
her wrist, inset with cabochon rubies that glowed brighter than freshly
spilled blood. Inlaid glyphs circled it, and where the ends joined
together, the talons of two vultures formed a clasp.

Even as she
draped her
arms around his neck, she could not take her eyes from it. Making soft
sounds of joy in her throat, she took his hand and led him around the
corner of the village building to the work sheds. “I must thank you
properly,” she whispered.

With practiced
steps
they hurried to a shearing room and fell onto a pile of freshly cut
wool, sinking into its softness. He roughly stripped off his kilt, and
she reached to caress him, smiling to herself at finding him engorged
and slick with lust. He brought his mouth again to hers, groaning aloud
as she expertly kneaded him. His lip throbbed where she had bitten it,
but the pain only served to inflame him further.

Then he was
roughly
removing her dress over her shoulders, slowly inching himself down her
body, licking the small of her neck, her ears, the corner of her mouth.
He would have lingered at her breasts if she’d let him, but she pushed
him farther down. She arched as she felt his tongue intimately
caressing her, and her eyes became slits in the dark, half-moons where
no pupil showed. He bored into her, and the taste of her on his tongue
was mixed with the taste of his own blood. She began to moan, to
writhe, and then she groaned aloud, once, then again, trying to
simultaneously push him away yet keep him there forever. At the sound
of her cries he instantly climaxed, the hot stickiness of him spilling
over her. Paneb quickly pulled her toward him, parting her legs so that
he could finish within her. He buckled and collapsed on top of her,
still thrusting, and his groans became deep, animal cries of pleasure.
Then it was over, and their movements slowly ceased. They lay drenched
in their own sweat and could not find the strength to part. He moved to
say something tender in her ear, but was interrupted by a scratching at
the door.

“Paneb!” It
was a
whisper that might have been the wind.

Hunro sat up.
Paneb
shook his head, warning her not to betray their presence. He indicated
to her through gestures to remove the bracelet.

The voice was
insistent. “Paneb! I know you’re in there, so don’t pretend you’re not!”

“Khepura?”

“There’s
trouble!”

“How did you
know I
was here?”

“I’m not head
woman
for nothing. You come out of there, too, Hunro. Your son Rami is
already home.”

Hunro let
loose with a
whispered string of invectives that would not have been out of place in
a barracks. After wiping herself with some strands of stray wool, she
seized her dress and slipped it back over her shoulders. Hunro detested
the idea that Khepura was keeping accounts of her whereabouts.
Reluctantly, she thrust the bracelet into the cloth that had covered it.

Khepura, the
corpulent
and intimidating wife of the goldsmith Sani, stood waiting for them at
the door, disapproval etched into the folds of her wide, flat face.

“Look at you
two,” she
scolded. “Courting a trial for adultery, that’s what.”

“Go to hell,
Khepura,”
said Hunro, her sandy voice laced with scorn. She allowed no one to
pass judgment on her, particularly this fat, ugly, overbearing woman.

“Be quiet,
both of
you!” Paneb snapped impatiently, still fastening his kilt around his
waist. “What’s this trouble, then?”

“At your
aunt’s house—”

Alarmed, Paneb
ran off
before she could finish speaking. “Wipe your lip, Paneb!” Khepura
called after him. “It’s bleeding!”

The two women
hurried
in his wake as he sped through the village gates. Khepura, who
considered it her duty as elected head woman to oversee the morals of
the village women, kept up a steady strain of outraged commentary.
“Don’t think I’m the only one who knows about you and Paneb!” she
warned Hunro as they entered the village’s narrow main street.

“As if I
care,” Hunro
shot back, avoiding a group of shrieking children playing in the lane.
Faster than Khepura, she deftly sidestepped the pack of barking dogs
now streaking past them. Like an eel among the reeds she agilely wove
through the groups of villagers gossiping together in doorways.
Khepura, panting and wheezing, fought to keep up with her.

“You have the
morals
of an alley cat!” the head woman charged. “I doubt you can name the
fathers of your own children!”

“I’m sure your
Sani
must be one of them.”

“Isis hear
her!”

The two women
were
still arguing when they reached Hetephras’s home. Stopped from entering
by Paneb’s bulky frame at the doorway, Hunro strained to peer over his
shoulders into the room. Frustrated, she finally pushed him forcibly
aside. Khepura thrust her bulk into the crowded room as well.