City of Dreams

FIVE

Kenamun was a tall man – too tall, with that fragile thinness which accompanies extreme height. His hands were large, with swollen knuckles and the long, nervous, hammer-ended fingers that betray a weak centre of life. They hung at the end of slender wrists and looked as if they had been tacked on to the wrong person. His head was long and bony, and so shaped that you could see all the contours of the skull beneath the skin. Here, too, the features were large, and clumsily applied: a nose like a ridge of clay, lips that recalled a Nubian’s, though set in a bitter line; a protruding blue chin and ears so prominent that they covered half the sides of his head. Only his eyes were small, and they were set so deeply in their orbits that you could not tell what colour they were. They glittered like the backs of scarabs caught in torchlight at the rear of a tomb.

To mitigate his appearance, he had grown a beard – though it was so fine, to conform with custom, that it might have been painted on with a kohl-brush, an impression reinforced by the methodical severity with which the rest of the face had been shaved. He wore a red-and-gold headdress, and a white tunic trimmed with the same colours. He stood at an unusually high desk in the room into which Merymose ushered Huy, and there was no sign of any other furniture, beyond an open chest containing scrolls. Huy concluded that the man worked standing up.

He looked at Huy – as far as Huy could tell: it was more an impression of being looked at, and there was no reading the expression in the eyes – but spoke to Merymose without preamble.

‘So this is the man you say is indispensable to us.’

‘He would be of help,’ said Merymose. ‘We want this solved soon.’

‘Indeed. But what methods has he that we do not have at our disposal already?’

‘An instinct for asking the right questions.’

‘Of whom? You know the families we are dealing with.’

‘Frequently, just of himself.’

Kenamun had not removed his gaze from Huy, who began to feel like a specimen, or, worse, a snake stared down by a mongoose.

‘You have recanted your allegiance to the Great Criminal?’ Huy sighed. ‘I was not offered that possibility. I was merely forbidden to practise my profession.’

‘And you were a scribe. After all those years of training, that must have been like having your hand cut off.’ Kenamun considered. ‘But you were not sent into exile, or to work in the mines?’

‘No.’

‘And you are a friend of the family of Amotju?’

‘Yes,’ said Huy, recalling Taheb. Could that have only been yesterday – and at about this time?

The official dropped his gaze abruptly and turned his attention to some papers on his desk. ‘You are a good officer, Merymose,’ he said at last, ‘and although I disagree with you about the capability of our Medjays, I respect your judgment. You may consult this man, but he is to have no direct or unsupervised contact with the families of the girls, and he is to work only under your orders, not independently. You will make a report to me daily at the first hour of night. Finally, he is your responsibility. If this becomes widely known, I will say that you acted on your own initiative, and you will take the consequences.’

He did not look up, or say anything more. Huy and Merymose glanced at each other, and withdrew.

‘What is he like?’ asked Huy as soon as they were clear of the building and out in the broad street that ran close to the walls of the palace complex. After Kenamun’s office, the light of day seemed even brighter, the sun warmer.

‘He is an official. He is on his dignity. He doesn’t know how to go about the work he has been put in charge of, and yet the successful solution of this case will be a great coup for him, politically. On the other hand, the risk is high, because failure will set him back. He has few friends, and already the pressure Ipuky and Reni are putting on him through their friends is filtering down to me. But he made no objection to engaging you. That is a degree of how desperate he is to get this thing settled.’

They walked down to the river, as a motley crowd milled about the jetties where the ferry boats left for the West Bank. Over there, generations of pharaohs slept in the tombs, cut deep into the red cliffs of the valley. The thought of the neglected tomb of Nefertiti passed briefly through Huy’s mind.

‘What do the families say?’

‘They are too broken in spirit to know. There is suspicion of the work of demons; but it is rare for demons to attack the rich, and above all to leave no trace of violence on the bodies. That there is a clear similarity has escaped no one, and there is fear that other daughters of similar families are at risk. We have been pestered for men to protect several houses, and as these people have such influence, we cannot refuse.’

‘The girls must have had friends. Have you spoken to them?’ Huy decided to keep what he had learnt about Iritnefert to himself for the moment. There was no point in telling Merymose what could not be proved. There was little likelihood that he would believe it, and, anyway Huy himself was not about to trust the Medjay completely.

‘Yes, some. Of course the two girls knew each other, too – all part of the same set. It seems that Ipuky’s daughter was rebellious; but they either don’t know what she got up to, or won’t say. The other girl – ‘ Merymose hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. Just an ordinary girl.’

Huy nodded, but the hesitation had not escaped him.

‘Her brothers are angry,’ continued Merymose more confidently.

‘At least, one is angry; the other is inclined to be more…’ he searched for the word, ‘philosophical about it – like his father.’

‘Philosophical?’ Huy imagined the rage he would feel if his son were killed.

‘They accept what has happened; but they do not see anger as the fuel for vengeance. I know that Ipuky is putting his own men on to this.’

‘That will muddy the water.’

‘What do you want them to do? Med jays are not trained to investigate such things as these,’ repeated Merymose.

‘And if it is a demon?’

‘The household priests are looking to Osiris for guidance. So far he has given none. The household priests take that to mean that the gods are not responsible for these deaths.’

Huy wondered how deep Merymose’s belief in the gods ran. Also, being human, Huy regretted that he was now committed to working with the policeman. If he had been able to, how gladly he would have hired himself out to either of the wealthy men whose daughters had died. He doubted if the authorities represented by Merymose and Kenamun would pay him as much as Reni or Ipuky would have; and he doubted if he would receive any reward at all if he were unsuccessful.

He looked up to see Merymose grinning at him. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he said. ‘Neither of them would have engaged you. Now that we have an escaped political prisoner on the loose, everybody is fighting shy of having anything to do with people like you. Of course it doesn’t affect the really big fish, but even important officials who recanted formally are looking over their shoulders at the moment. That these killings have happened at the same time doesn’t help.’

‘Then thank you for getting me any work at all.’ Huy countered affability with affability; but he could not help wondering what strings Merymose had had to pull – or how – to get Kenamun to accept him. He wondered if he should not give his Ka a name, and call it Taheb.

‘What did you tell them at the paperworks?’

‘They didn’t ask questions. I’d given them time to look for someone to replace me permanently. And they told me that I can have a job back there any time I want.’ Huy grinned. Nothing would drag him back to that grind.

They had reached the end of the ferry jetties and ahead of them lay the tightly-knit bulk of the town, its few colours – beige, dun, ochre, brown and white – flattened by the sunlight. The shadows provided some relief, and here and there a man or a donkey dozed in one. A thin dog sidled up to them, stopping just out of range of a kick, and looked at them with what it hoped was an appealing expression. It only succeeded in looking craven.

‘We’ve nothing for you,’ Merymose told the dog, adding to Huy: ‘If you’re poor and ugly, you can forget about love, eh?’

‘What do you want to do?’ asked Huy.

‘I want to tell you everything I know about all this so far, and in detail. What do you want to do?’

‘I want to look at the bodies.’

Merymose hesitated again. ‘We’ll have to get permission from the families. They will both be with the embalmers.’

‘Then let’s do that. Fast.’

‘But what can you possibly tell from the bodies, especially now?’

‘They must have died somehow. It may be that looking at the bodies will tell me. I might see something that has been missed.’

‘They may have been poisoned.’

‘Poison takes time, and it hurts, it turns the lips black. Iritnefert looked peaceful, and her body was relaxed. From what you say, Reni’s daughter did not look different. What was her name? You never mentioned it.’

‘Neferukhebit. They called her Nefi.’

Huy’s stomach leapt, but he hid his surprise from Merymose. The policeman was keeping things from him. Why? Was it just that he was obeying orders from above?

‘What did she look like?’

Merymose told him. Huy hoped that the embalmers knew their job, and had preserved the bodies well. He told himself that he had little to fear; but he was sweating as they made their way into the city.

Meet by the water, he had told her. Lying waiting for the family to go to sleep, she had begun to lose courage. Perhaps, she had thought, she would not go after all. She would stay, safely in bed, cocooned in the fresh linen sheets scented with seshen, and then perhaps later she would explain, if the opportunity arose. It might not even be necessary.

But then her pride and her curiosity had got the better of her again, and she remembered why she had agreed to the meeting in the first place. The thought of what might happen scared her, but it thrilled her too. Of course, nothing at all might happen. They might just talk. But that would be a kind of failure, having summoned up the courage to go this far, to take this step; and though he had warned her that it might hurt a little, she trusted him: he was so gentle, so mature. He would not do her any real harm.

Once she was certain that the house was asleep she had climbed lightly out of bed, dipping her face into the bowl of washing water on the table near the door and dabbing it dry with a hand towel. She was careful not to disturb the make-up she had applied secretly before retiring, and checked it quickly in a polished bronze mirror that lay next to the bowl, the deep yellow glow from the oil lamp she had left burning providing her with just enough light to see that none had smudged. Having satisfied herself, she slipped into a tight calf-length dress which had a strap over the left shoulder but which fell away to the right of her body, leaving one young breast exposed. Then she snuffed out the light, and waited for a moment, getting her owl-vision. High in the sky, Khons’s chariot reflected only a sliver of light from its sides.

Stepping into the passage she trod on something soft, silky and alive, but was in time to withdraw her naked foot before it wailed. Instead, a sleepy purring trill told her that the dozing house cat – it was the long-haired one, named after Bubastis, and almost a pet – had mistaken her clumsiness for a caress; she had barely disturbed its sleep. The corridor was in the embrace of a deep silence which spread right across the dark garden court below and beyond the open verandah which ran along all four inward-looking walls of the house on the first floor, on to which the bedrooms opened. The only sound was her father’s heavy breathing, occasionally broken by a snore. She stole past his door with even greater care, unsure whether he was sleeping alone tonight. It had been long since he had asked her mother to share his bed, and for some time now his favourite had been a young Khabiri concubine, a month younger than she was herself. And that, if anything, was what had fired her to embark on this adventure.

Aware of the loose board near the top of the stairs, she clung to the wall and then slipped down to the garden in shadow, barely a shadow herself, and making as little noise, though inside her head it seemed as if her heart would waken the dead with its pumping. The one hurdle still to be jumped was the gatekeeper; but she had chosen her night carefully. Old Mahu was on duty, and he never left his shelter by the main gate, once he was sure that everyone was asleep. It was likely that he, too, slept.

She made her way to the small side gate that opened on to the alley and which in the daytime was kept permanently open so that tradesmen could make their way to the kitchens through the vegetable garden. There was a steady flow of people during the day and in theory the last to use the gate after the second hour of night should be the one responsible for bolting it. In practice this rarely happened, and anyway since childhood, even before she was old enough to wear her hair in the Lock of Youth twisted over her right shoulder, she had known the location of the hidden bolt, and how to slide it.

She was not wearing her hair tied into the Lock now. It was loose and tumbled in a dark brown cascade over her narrow shoulders. It changed her face; she seemed a stranger, a complete adult. She tried to imagine how she would look when she was old enough to wear a wig, like her mother and the great ladies of the court who surrounded Queen Ankhsenpaamun, though the queen was not much older than she was herself.

For once the little gate was locked, but she quickly pulled back the stone bolt and slipped outside, drawing the gate closed but not relocking it: she would need to be as little delayed as possible if she were to get back unnoticed, and the first servants rose early, at the ninth hour of night. She knew by the temperature that it was now about the sixth hour. Borne on a tiny breeze, there was even a faint hint of morning in the air already, so she would have to hurry.

She knew the meeting place; the pool in the little park on the south side of the palace compound. She knew it because she frequently went there. The pool in their own garden had been filled in by her father five years before when her baby brother had drowned there; but she loved to sit by cool water, inured to the stinging flies which gave people from the north so much trouble. And now she was going there again, for a great adventure; perhaps the greatest in her life. The anticipation overcame her fear, and there was fear: the thing which had most made her hesitate was the thought of the deaths of her two friends. But Iritnefert had been found by the river, outside the compound; and Neferukhebit in her own home. Besides, she would not be alone – only on the journey there and back. During the hour they would be together, she would be protected. The thought gave wings to her feet. She did not want to waste a moment of the time they would have.

She arrived at the park. It was cool and dark, but familiar, and she felt no fear as she entered it, though she briefly touched the tjet amulet at her neck for luck. She was aware of her body, realising that it was taut as a lute string with anticipation. Every pore was alive. She could feel the root of every hair of her head.

She advanced through the shadows less cautiously, her only fear now that there would be no one to meet her. The thought cast darkness over her heart.

But there, standing at the edge of the pool, half-hidden in the deeper shade cast by a clump of leaning palm trees, he was waiting. Reassuring, smiling at her, and coming to greet her. Strange that he should seem so familiar to her now; as if they had always been close.

‘You came.’

She looked up at him, wanting to reach up and stroke his face. His eyes held her. She had no will.

‘I never doubted that you would.’

‘I am on fire,’ she said, and was immediately ashamed of her candour.

He moved away from her. Only a fraction, but she was aware of it.

‘This is a solemn moment. We must consecrate it to each other and to the gods.’

‘Yes.’ She was too awed to notice anything but passion in the voice. She knew from pictures in the Book of Instruction clandestinely glimpsed in her father’s library what to expect, approximately; and she had seen animals; but exactly what happened she could not imagine.

‘We do not want the gods to regard our deed as evil.’

‘They wouldn’t do that. It is good to create life.’

‘But in an evil world innocence must be protected. Come. The water will purify us.’

She watched as if dreaming as he untied his kilt, all he was wearing, and let it fall to the warm ground beneath them. She looked between his legs, but all was shadow there until he turned towards her and she saw the snake’s head loom. Her first sensation was of unfocused disappointment. It was not as large or as upright as the one in the Book of Instruction.

‘Now you.’

Dutifully, even hastily, she pulled the strap down over her left arm and stepped out of her dress. She regretted that it was too dark for him to see how beautiful she had tried to make herself, even using malachite as well as the usual galena. She let the dress fall and took a shy step towards him. He put out a hand and caressed her hair, her head, with tenderness and, she thought, curious detachment. But she knew nothing of these things.

Then he was closer. There was the warm, acrid male smell of his body, and his left arm was round her, stronger than she thought, holding her against him. Her face was against his chest. Clumsily, for he was holding her too tightly for her to manoeuvre, she kissed him there, but he twisted away, bruising her lips and leaving her confused and rejected. What had she done wrong?

‘Teach me,’ she said, raising her head to look at him.

He did not look into her eyes. He was steadying her with his left arm, fumbling with something in his right hand. She was held so tightly now that she could not struggle. Then at last his lips descended on hers and she closed her eyes.

The pain which followed immediately was so sudden and so extreme that it went beyond feeling. She opened her eyes but he kept his arm tightly round her, his lips pressed on hers, so she could not move. But the will do to so did not last. What seemed an age was only seconds, fractions of seconds, before her open eyes no longer responded to the light they received. The side of his face became a range of grey hills towards which she was riding, on some animal whose hoofs did not touch the ground. Then the hills merged into the dark sky behind them, and all was grey, but it was not the hoped-for grey which is the beginning of dawn. It was a grey that went deeper, and deeper, into night.