Year of the Hyenas (13 page)

A man sat at
Hetephras’s prayer bench. Though he remained silent, his incredibly
black eyes glinted when he turned his gaze to Hunro. She had never seen
eyes as black as his. For perhaps the first time in her life, Hunro was
suddenly bashful, and her hands fluttered to her neck to conceal any
love bites that Paneb might have left there.

“I understand
why you
don’t want strangers in your aunt’s home,” Semerket was patiently
saying to the man with the smashed nose who loomed over him. “But the
vizier sent me to discover her murderer and bring him to justice.”

Paneb’s loud
threats
to evict Semerket dwindled to silence. “Murderer?” he whispered,
shocked. The horrified faces of the two women beside him were mirrors
of his own.

Khepura
stepped
forward, hands fluttering. “But we had heard that… that she had perhaps
drowned, or that a crocodile…?”

“She was
killed with
an axe.”

Paneb uttered
an
obscenity so foul that even Hunro blinked. He collapsed on the floor,
and Hunro bent to drape her arms about his shoulders, murmuring sounds
of comfort and pity.

Khepura spoke
sharply
to Semerket, “How do you know it was a murder?”

“I examined
her body
myself at the House of Purification.”

“But… but
after being
in the Nile for so long, how could you tell—?” Khepura shot Paneb a
glance, now rocking slowly forward and back, dumb with grief.

“There is no
mistake.”
Semerket did not mention that he also possessed a part of the axe that
had killed Hetephras; he intended to go secretly through the
tomb-workers’ tool sacks himself to look for the matching blade. This
was the chief reason for beginning his investigation at the village:
the tombmakers were more richly provisioned than all other laborers in
Egypt. If any group possessed tools of blue metal, it would be them.

Semerket
looked up to
find Hunro staring at him with avid interest. Their eyes caught for
just a moment, and he thought he saw in them an invitation to something
more. He quickly dropped his gaze. “Tell the villagers, please,” he
continued with a cough, “that I will be calling on them for their
statements.”

Hunro nodded,
about to
speak, but Khepura interrupted her. “That’s impossible. Such a thing…
it must be approved by the Council of Elders,” she said, raising her
chin with a trace of defiance.

“Then I will
begin
with the elders. Tomorrow.”

Khepura
reacted with
alarm. “You’re staying overnight? In the village?”

“Yes.”

The fat woman
shook
her head. “No one is allowed in this village at night who is not a
tombmaker by trade—Pharaoh’s tomb is a state secret.”

“The vizier
allows it,
as does the Western Mayor.” Semerket held up Toh’s insignia, fastened
to his neck by jasper beads.

Hunro reached
forward
to take the bar of etched gold between her fingers. Khepura grunted in
disgust. Hunro paid her no attention, and continued fingering the
vizier’s insignia. Though she could not read the glyphs inscribed upon
it, she smiled up at Semerket and let it fall back to his chest with a
slap.

Khepura looked
nervously down at Paneb, silently willing him to say something. Paneb
rose to his feet and said gruffly, “Do what you want to, then. But you
can’t stay here.”

“I must, to
examine
the house for any clues—”

Paneb’s
instant and
unexpected roar of anger was so loud that neighbors came running,
abandoning their dinner and gossip. He hoisted Semerket from the stone
bench so swiftly that the wind was knocked from him. Flashes of light
exploded in his brain as his head cracked against the mud-brick wall.
Paneb’s hands were tight about his neck.

Both women
flew upon
the foreman, pounding on his vast shoulders with their fists, pulling
at his cloak. “Paneb—let him go!”

“Paneb—no!”

“If you kill
him,
everyone in this village will pay the price!”

“Paneb, he is
the
vizier’s man!”

Semerket tore
at
Paneb’s hands, clawed at his face, tried to gouge his eyes. Then, with
the last bit of strength he had left, he managed to pant, “Why… don’t
you want me… to solve your aunt’s murder?”

That question
at last
penetrated Paneb’s rage. The demon glaring from his eyes suddenly fled.
With a final groan of anguish, Paneb released Semerket, who fell on the
floor, choking.

The foreman
spoke,
panting heavily, “Yes. Yes. Of course I want her murder solved.”

A querulous
voice
demanded entry from outside the house. The scribe Neferhotep eased his
way into the room, sliding past the gawking neighbors. He was a slight
man, and though still relatively young, was already hunch-shouldered
from his long years as a scribe. It took only a moment for him to size
up the situation. “Oh dear,” he said. “What have you done
this
time, Paneb?”

Paneb still
panted.
“Tell him—tell him he can’t stay in my aunt’s house, Nef. Tell him you
forbid it.”

“Well now, I
would—but
who is he?”

Together
Khepura and
Hunro spoke. Between the two agitated women Neferhotep was apprised of
the situation. His reaction to Hetephras’s death was the same as the
others’. “Murder!” he said at last, as if he could not believe it.

Neferhotep
bent down
to help Semerket to his feet. “Please forgive us, sir. As you can
imagine, we’re all devastated by this news. Paneb here was her nephew
and the shock of it no doubt unhinged him—”

“I don’t want
him
staying here!” Paneb seemed ready to lunge again at Semerket.

“Well now,
Paneb, he’s
the vizier’s appointed man. If he needs to—”

“No!”

Neferhotep’s
face was
instantly and startlingly transformed. “Listen to me,” he said,
bringing his eyes close to Paneb’s, “I don’t think you know what you’re
saying. I think you’re too upset to speak intelligently. I think you’d
better not say anything more, or this fine gentleman here might return
to the vizier with terrible stories about our… hospitality.” Neferhotep
never blinked as he spoke. “Do you understand me?”

Though Paneb’s
wide
mouth was a stubborn line, he dropped his head and nodded.

“Good,” said
Neferhotep. “Good. Now I think you should apologize and then go to your
home.”

“That’s not
necessary—” Semerket began.

“I say it is.
Paneb?”
Neferhotep’s voice was calm.

The foreman
crooked
his head in the direction of Semerket, the hatred on his face plain to
see. “Sorry,” he muttered, and bolted from the room. His startled
neighbors were quick to jump aside as he shoved his way through the
crowd and down the narrow avenue.

When he was
gone
Neferhotep exhaled shakily, and smiled at Semerket. “I am sorry for
that,” he said. “Paneb is our foreman, and a better one you’ll never
meet. But a foreman around here has to use brute force sometimes—and,
well, Paneb’s approach is rather uncomplicated.”

Semerket
rubbed his
throat. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Neferhotep’s
tone
became cajoling. “I hope you won’t hold it against us, particularly in
any formal reports to the vizier.”

Semerket said
nothing.
Neferhotep, now all warmth, went on. “I am Neferhotep, the chief scribe
and head of this village. This lady is Khepura, who I believe welcomed
you here earlier. And this is my wife, Hunro.” To Semerket’s surprise
he indicated the tall woman who had stared at him so audaciously.

“This lady is
your
wife
?” Had a jackal
married a lioness, Semerket could not have been more surprised.

Neferhotep’s
cordial
smile didn’t falter. “Yes, we’ve been married almost since we were
children, though Hunro wasn’t brought up here. Please, let us know how
we can make you comfortable, and how else we can be of service. I want
to know we’ve done everything possible to assist you.”

“Well… I’d
like
something to eat, if that’s all right. I’ll pay for it, of course.”

Hunro spoke up
eagerly. “Our servants here cook for the Medjays. I’m sure there are
some extra rations I can bring you.” Neferhotep watched her leave with
an enigmatic expression. A few seconds later Khepura too slipped
quietly from the room. The scribe turned just in time to see Semerket
staring after Hunro.

A shadow
crossed
Neferhotep’s face. “Well now,” the chief scribe said. He was looking at
Semerket in the same way he had regarded Paneb—his eyes unblinking,
never wavering, never leaving Semerket’s face. When the smile returned
to his face, his eyes remained cool.

HUNRO WAS RUNNING TOthe kitchens. To her
intense irritation, Khepura again caught up to her. Khepura spoke
casually, as if discussing the previous night’s dinner. “What do you
have wrapped up there in your hand?”

Hunro stopped
and
tossed her head. “My way out of this hole!” Defiantly she slipped the
bracelet onto her wrist, smirking at the head woman.

It took all of
Khepura’s resolve not to strike Hunro’s slatternly smile from her face.
“You’ll bring this village to ruin with your whore’s ways. But you’d
better know this, Hunro—the women here won’t let it happen. We’re all
of one mind about you.”

Hunro’s lips
curled
into a sneer. “Judging from present company, I’m surprised they all add
up to one mind.” She spoke lightly but her dark eyes were filled with
malice. “What’s really bothering you, Khepura, is that you can’t abide
the fact that the chief scribe is my husband, and the chief foreman’s
my lover. Push me a little further and you’ll find out who the real
head woman in this village is.”

“You won’t get
away
with it,” Khepura retorted evenly.

Hunro smiled
indulgently. “You rule your way, Khepura,” she said, “I’ll rule mine.”
She held her arm up to the torchlight so the bracelet could flash a
defiant red, then turned to hurry toward the kitchens.

Khepura did
not follow
her. She had said enough. There would come a time, Khepura thought,
when the gods would demonstrate their disapproval of Hunro. And Khepura
silently vowed to herself that the time would be soon.

AFULL HOUR elapsed before Hunro
returned to Hetephras’s house. Semerket had begun to despair of ever
getting any food that night. He yawned despite his hunger, fatigued. It
had been a long, disquieting day. Perhaps it would be better to go to
sleep unfed and start fresh in the morning. But then Hunro was pushing
open the door, bearing beer, bread, and beans.

“I’m sorry for
being
so late, but the servants just brought it to me. I don’t know what kept
them.” She placed the bowl on the tiled floor of the reception room and
unsealed the jar of beer. The aromatic yeastiness of it caressed his
nostrils. He was immediately very thirsty.

“Join me?” he
said,
indicating the beer.

“N-no,” she
answered
reluctantly, “My husband…”

“I was hoping
we could
talk.”

Her eyes
flickered.
“About what?”

He gestured,
indicating the village around them. “This place. Hetephras. You.”

“Me?” she said
with a
tiny laugh. “I’m hardly interesting. I haven’t left this village since
the day I was married.” Her voice suddenly sounded old, and she dropped
her head. She leaned against the stuccoed wall, staring moodily out the
opened door.

He wondered at
the
change in her. Gone was her former flirtatiousness. He lifted the jar
of beer to his lips, and stared at her over the rim.

She turned and
watched
him drink. “Is it to your taste?” she asked.

He shrugged.
“There’s
a flavor… what is it?”

“We add
coriander and
some other herbs to it. Not as fine as the beers you get in Thebes, I
imagine. But then, what could be?”

Semerket shook
his
head ironically, and quoted the words of the poem, “ ‘What do they say,
they who are so far from Thebes? They spend their days blinking at its
name. If only we had it, they say…’”

Her eyes
became hard
as basalt. “I’ll have it,” she said firmly. “Soon.”

Semerket
dipped his
fingers into the fava beans and tasted the same pungent herb that was
in the beer. “What would you do with it?” he asked her, swallowing.
“It’s a sad place. The people there are angry, grasping—like all
cities.”

“But the
festivals!
The bazaars, where you can buy the world if you want. The inns, where
people laugh and sing all night long…” From the rapture in her sultry
tenor she may as well have been saying “moonlight!” or “kisses!”

“And the
foreigners…”
she continued in the same breathless fashion, “…from as far away as
India and Cathay, I’ve heard. What excitement!”

Semerket
yawned,
intensely sleepy. He was feeling the effects of being awake since
before dawn. “The beggars, the cheaters and tricksters, the fat greasy
priests…”

She laughed,
and the
sound was quivery to him, like oil on water. “You can’t discourage me.
You’ve just forgotten how wonderful it is because you’ve lived in
Eastern Thebes always, I’ll wager. I’m going to live there, too, one
day. See if I don’t. I’m leaving this little turd of a place, and I’m
never looking back.”

Semerket did
not
dispute her. His head fell to his chest, and he struggled to keep his
eyes open. “I’m sorry…” he muttered. “So tired…”

“Let me help,”
Hunro
whispered. She put his arm around her shoulders and hoisted him to his
feet. Semerket found himself leaning on her surprisingly strong frame,
stumbling toward the back room of Hetephras’s house. Setting him on a
bench, she unfurled his pallet. Helping him lie down, she covered him
with some light skins that had belonged to the old priestess. Did her
lips graze his? He was not even aware when she left…

It seemed like
hours
later when he woke, but not much time could have elapsed, judging from
the omnipresent din of the village. Somewhere a child wailed. From
around the corner came the sawing of wood, a carpenter working late
into the night. Someone doused a cooking fire, its loud sizzle
accompanied by clouds of acrid smoke. Words of conversations too
distant to be clearly understood floated to him in the dark, punctuated
on occasion by the odd, shrill laugh. He heard a group of men,
whispering, their heavy tools clanking together in the night. The men
were soon gone, apparently going down a side alley.