City of the Dead (22 page)

The four men stood before an altar, where something had been sacrificed. Red blood ran from the stone and one of the young priests lit a fire. Smoke puffed in gray billows above their heads and hung there. One of them held two wooden sticks and he tapped them together in a slow rhythm while the others continued to moan. I pressed my cheek against the cold stone, vainly seeking some sort of comfort from its solidity. The moaning, the tapping, the blood and burning continued for some time. I grew dizzy from my careful position.

At last Rashidi raised his voice above the rest, and they ceased their noise. “Tomorrow it shall be revealed that a great evil has been done, my sons,” he said.

The others lifted their heads in attention.

“They will understand that they have done wrong, and they will regret their actions. All will be made right at last.”

The young men murmured in agreement.

“I must know that you are ready to carry out your part,” Rashidi said. “That your hands are strong for your task, that you will not back down from what is asked of you.”

Again, agreement was given.

“You must strike quickly and all at once. This is important. You have the knives that I have given you?”

I ground my cheek into the wall now, let it cause me pain in the hope that it would harden me.

“We are ready to do the will of the gods, Rashidi,” one of the younger men said.

I felt the fool for not seeing it sooner.

Rashidi, who pushed me to investigate the murders. Ebo’s wife and her claim that a priest had told her to reveal that I had been paying off her husband. And I had seen the rage in his protestations before Khufu. Rashidi, who knew how to drug a man like an animal and how to slit the throat of an ox.

Yes, Rashidi. Another piece of our past. The young man who had loved Amunet. The dismissed priest who had cause to hate me for taking away his position.

Three young priests. Three more victims in Tamit, Khufu, and Ahmose. Then there would only be Rashidi and myself.

“Ra will grant our efforts success, I am certain,” Rashidi now said. “He will not allow the evil to go unpunished.”

He tossed some leaves of fragrant myrrh onto the fire. The flames popped and a shower of sparks lifted above their heads. A pungent aroma now filled the temple and reached out to the portico where I stood, teeth clenched and hands curled into fists at my side.

I sensed that their meeting had drawn to a close and disappeared around the corner of the temple. I had learned all I needed about Rashidi’s three young assistants, but I would not let the priest go so easily. Before morning came, I intended to pry from him each of his many secrets.

Rashidi’s apprentices departed soon after. I remained hidden in the darkness and watched them drift away into the night. Rashidi remained inside.

I returned to the entrance of the temple slowly and leaned into the doorway. The fire had burned down to embers now, casting a reddish glow along the walls. I did not see the little priest. I ventured farther into the doorway and inclined my ears.

From deeper in the temple, I heard the sound of soft chanting.

The valley temple served the workmen and royal estate while the pyramid complex was still under construction, but when all was complete this temple would be the location for Pharaoh’s mummification, and his body would proceed from here to the pyramid via the stone causeway that had already been partially built. I had not yet commissioned the walls and roof of the causeway to be completed, but the ramp itself led from the back of the temple up to the base of the pyramid, where the mortuary temple would be built for the ongoing worship of the king when he became Ra.

I circled to the back of the temple, scrambled up the rubble ramp upon which the causeway was built, and descended down to the back entrance, where a small chamber currently housed the statue of Ra. It was here that the priests would daily offer libations and sacrifices. I stood just inside the back entrance and listened again for Rashidi’s chant.

The temple was silent, and I thought for a moment that perhaps he had left through the front while I was circling around. But then the low chant came again, very near. I stepped backward in surprise but managed to hold my ground, and I braced myself against the temple wall with one hand. In my other hand I held a pebble I’d picked up when climbing the causeway, and I grasped it now between thumb and forefinger. The focus helped me settle my fear.

The wall here was carved with a relief of Anubis. Fitting. It occurred to me that Anubis was never depicted holding the shepherd’s crook of leadership, only the whiplike flail of punishment. Small comfort for those who awaited his judgment.

From my vantage point I was not able to see the priest. It served no purpose to listen to his chant and the odd scraping that accompanied it, so I leaned in farther.

I saw Rashidi in profile, working at something over a stone block. He paused a moment and set down an instrument. A long knife. Beside him, an oil lamp flared. He was adding oil. He bent back to his work.

Sharpening
. He scraped the blade against the stone again and again, continuing his low, monotone singing all the while. The smell of burnt flesh still filled my nostrils. A moment later he lifted a hunk of charred meat from the table where he worked. He wrapped his hand around the shaft of the knife and stabbed at the flesh. Then again, with more force. Again and again, until the
meat hung from the bone in ragged tatters. But he was not satisfied, for he went back to his sharpening.

Why would the priest be sharpening a knife at this hour, the night before he planned to take his revenge? I could think of only one reason.

“Rashidi?”

After the long minutes of silence, the voice that rang from the front of the temple nearly startled me into revealing myself. Fortunately it also surprised Rashidi, and the priest dropped the knife against the stone. He circled to the doorway quickly and moved into the antechamber.

“Ahmose,” I heard him say. The name chilled me. I pushed forward into the space Rashidi had just vacated and positioned myself at the doorway to the antechamber, ready to spring to my brother’s defense.

The priest’s voice was low and silky. “What are you doing out at such an hour?”

“What have you done, priest?”

I knew that tone well.

“Only what the gods require of me, Ahmose. Nothing more.”

“You went to Khufu. And now my brother has been sentenced to die!”

There was a long pause, during which I imagined Rashidi attempting to hide his pleasure.

“Sometimes justice is harsh, my old friend. But Ma’at is what sustains us, and we must bow to her wishes.”

I crept backward two steps and took the knife from the stone where Rashidi had dropped it.

“I am not certain,” Ahmose said, “that we have seen justice at all.”

“Ahmose. Of all people, you know that what has transpired was necessary. You told me so yourself.”

“I—I did not think—”

“You did not think that truth and divine order applied to your family?”

“I did not think you would use my words against my brother!”

“It is you who desired to hurt your brother, Ahmose. You know that. All these years of holding back the truth. This was not right. It had to be made so.”

“Not by you!”

The knife felt heavy in my hand. I now stood at the edge of a doorway and watched the actions of those who did not sense my presence.

“There is guilt enough to go around, Ahmose. Hemiunu is not the only one with blood on his hands. Others also played a part. And they must suffer. They will suffer.”

My brother lifted his head to stare at the priest, and for a moment it seemed that he looked past him and directly at me. I saw the fear in his eyes.

“Where is your brother, Ahmose?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you expect me, expect Pharaoh to believe that?”

Ahmose huffed. “My words sealed his fate. My words began all of this. Why would he trust me now?”

Rashidi lifted his head, and I could feel the ice in his stare even from behind, could hear it in his voice. “Your words did not begin this, Ahmose. A young girl’s death began it. The lies that came after, this is what began it. But it will all come to an end. And the guilty will pay.”

The knife hilt dug into my tightened palm, urging me, tempting me. An overwhelming desire left me dizzy—the desire to rush into the antechamber, grab Rashidi from behind, and slit his throat like he had Mentu’s. To heave him up onto the altar and set him ablaze as an offering to his gods.

I fought to refuse the call of the knife. To give in to my urge would only heap more guilt upon my head, with no way to prove my innocence. No, I needed more proof than overheard conversations and a sharpened knife.

I heard Ahmose’s labored breathing and knew that guilt plagued him as it did me.

“Go home, Ahmose,” Rashidi whispered. “Go home and wait for justice to find you.”

I back stepped quickly, replaced the knife upon the sharpening stone, and resumed my position outside the causeway door.

Rashidi appeared a moment later, carrying a basin. I pulled my head back as he entered the chamber, waited for a count of five, then dared to lean in again. He had placed the basin upon the stone and disappeared. I heard his returning footsteps from the back of the chamber. He walked past me, near enough that I could have reached a leg out and tripped him. Near enough that I could see what he carried.

Hammered gold winked at me in the lamplight from the face of an ornately sculpted death mask.

The pebble was still in my left hand, and I tightened my thumb and forefinger around it, willing myself to silence. Twice more the priest disappeared and then returned, each time with another mask in his hand, until the three were laid in a row on the sharpening stone. Then from the basin, he scooped water in his palm and sprinkled it over the masks, the low chant beginning again.

He is purifying them. Consecrating them. What kind of evil sickness is this?

Three masks. One each for Tamit, for Khufu, and for Ahmose.

Was this the proof I sought? Could I go to Khufu with what I had seen? I had only my own word against that of the priest. The numbing sense of choice weighted my limbs and left me cold.

I wished for more proof to vindicate myself. But I had seen what a choice made out of ambition and selfishness could do.

Did I dare wait for Rashidi to incriminate himself?

I needed to go home. Needed to bathe, to change my clothes, to eat. To prepare myself for what was to come.

In spite of the risk, in the late watches of the night I stole back into the royal estate, through the gardens and trees, and into my own home.

No guards. And the servants seemed to all be in their beds.

I found my way through the darkened passageways and reached my chamber with relief. With the door closed tightly behind me and a piece of sackcloth thrown over the open window, I dared to light a tiny oil lamp and place it on a table.

The water left in the jug and basin had no doubt been there for days, but it was a relief to wash just the same. I dried, found a clean white skirt and fastened it about my hips with a knot.

In my hike back to the royal estate a plan had begun to form. I propped a bronze mirror on the table and pulled out tiny jars of pigment—kohl, juniper berries, and ochre, rarely used. I pawed through a basket of random items until a tiny applying stick finally surfaced, and I dipped it into the kohl. With a careful, though largely unpracticed hand, I lined the bottom rim of my right eye,
from the bridge of my nose all the way to my temple. Then another line along the top eyelid, joining the first in a point, then a swoop along the temple. I repeated the process on my left eye, then filled in the eyelids with yellow ochre. I placed a small amount of red juniper berries on my lips, enough to alter the natural curve of my mouth slightly.

I dumped the pigments back into the basket and went to another box where I kept the equally seldom-used jewelry. There was not much of it, and I put on every piece. Gold armbands now encircled my upper arms, and a heavy pectoral necklace weighted my chest over Merit’s ankh. I had several rings and put them on too. When all was complete, I put on the wig Sen had given me, a longer style than my own, and tried to survey my reflection in the blurry image of the bronze.

It would have to be enough.

I extinguished the lamp, removed the window covering, and stretched upon my bed, trying to rest but ready to spring up in an instant if the need arose.

In the quiet moments as I tried to settle my mind, thoughts of Neferet intruded. Would I ever see her again? Or would this be the day I discovered whether the gods were truly just in the afterlife?

I slept only in tiny fragments of time, ever watchful for the lightening of the sky outside my window. Long before dawn had arrived, I was gone from my home and hidden in the one place no one would ever search for me—directly in the center of the royal estate.

A small arena had been built here for the purpose of hosting games and entertainment. Underground, several stalls held bulls for the fight and animals for sacrifice, and a few chambers were hollowed out for entertainers to prepare. Dark passageways concealed these rooms. The arena would be the center of the festival’s
activities, and I hoped the assembled crowd would not notice one man wearing too much eye paint.

Crouched against the cold mud-brick wall of the underground chamber, I waited and readied my mind. Tucked into the belt at my waist was a knife. Nothing large but decidedly deadly.

I would find my brother and watch him from a distance. Wherever he went, I would follow. Eventually his path would cross with the priest’s. I would wait for the moment when Rashidi’s apprentices were about to attack, and I would intervene, thus proving my innocence.

Despite the cold at my back, I finally dozed.

I do not know how much time passed, but I became aware of the stirring of life in the air above me, around the arena. The noise grew slowly, like the gradual rise of the river waters, until I knew that the estate had been flooded with nobles and peasants alike, ready to celebrate.

There was a brief hush, then the lifted shout of many voices. The games had begun. My fingers burned with anxiety and rage. It was time.

I crept from my hiding place and twisted through the underground passage, up into the harsh morning light. The enclosed arena was already brimming with celebrants, as was the sandy court around it. Thousands of laborers, overseers, and royals teemed through the streets and gardens of the royal estate. I had my usual passing thought of how much work could be accomplished if all this energy were put toward labor instead of a day of recreation. But my ideas about the overabundance of festivals had never been welcomed by Pharaoh. Khufu did enjoy a celebration.

I worked my way through the crowd that flowed to the arena, wondering for the first time how I would ever find Ahmose in this
mass of people. It would be easier to find Khufu, I knew. He would be the central figure in today’s events. Tamit also tended to stand out from a crowd. My brother would be more difficult to locate, but it was my brother I was most determined to keep watch over. In spite of his betrayal, I believed I could convince him of my innocence and procure his help in stopping Rashidi.

A couple carrying two small boys created a breach in the crowd. I pushed through it, heading for the arena, where wrestling matches had begun. My brother was once a talented wrestler himself, in younger days, and I guessed that this event would be likely to draw his attention. I worked my way around the perimeter, trying to search each face in the crowd while remaining unsearched myself.

The press of brown bodies in white skirts and white dresses melted into sameness. I despaired of finding Ahmose. What if Rashidi had arranged to meet them before the games began, to do his work then? Did they already lie in some unknown place, their faces covered with golden death masks?

I shoved through the masses of flesh, my eyes scanning every male face.

There
. I saw him only from behind, but the set of his shoulders was too familiar. I skirted a cluster of young women, cheering for a wrestler who had just been taken down so violently that the physician had been called to his side. I moved to the edge of the arena’s half wall and turned my head to study my brother’s profile.

Ahmose. At last. Go nowhere now, my brother. Watch the wrestling and think only of the days that once were.

I risked moving closer. There were so many people. I knew that if he moved quickly, I might not be able to keep him in sight. A new match had begun and the grunts of the wrestlers mingled with the shouts of the crowd. Bets had been placed, and the mood
of the people was more intense than jubilant. The wrestlers were evenly matched in size, and soon their sweaty limbs made them difficult to tell them apart in the sand.

I saw Ahmose bend his head as though he had dropped something, and then realized that his son, Jafari, was with him. He said something into the boy’s ear, and Jafari grinned up at him and nodded. Ahmose gripped the boy’s shoulder in a loving gesture as old as fathers themselves. I felt a familiar pang for that which was missing from my own life and moved closer. I had to speak to my brother, to warn him, but it must be done discreetly, before he had a chance to cry out and alert others to my presence.

A winner was being declared in the center ring, and the crowd hushed to hear. In that moment, I heard my nephew say, “When will he return, Father?”

Ahmose’s expression grew stony. “Quiet, Jafari,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Do not speak of your uncle. Do not speak of him again, do you understand?” He glared down at his son, and the hand on the boy’s shoulder tightened.

It is as if I am dead to him
. The thought chilled me.

Another match would begin in a moment, but people were shifting, some toward other games, and some to get closer to the wrestling. I fought to retain my ground in the press and shove. Faces pushed up near mine. Any moment someone would recognize me and sound the alarm.

From behind, a hand reached out and fingers tightened around my arm. I jerked free and whirled, my fist raised to strike.

An old woman reached for me, trying to regain her balance. I lowered my arm and pulled back, away from the arena.

Ahmose
. Where had my brother gone? I searched for the top of his head above the glut of bodies. I shoved my way through the
crowd now, insensible to the looks it caused.
I have to find him.
I could not allow the three to meet with Rashidi with no warning and no protection.

Ahead the crowd broke into fragments. I thought I saw Ahmose pushing through, but Jafari was not with him.
It’s not him.

My chest pounded and my mouth grew dry.

The crowd opened to a wide sandy area. I started to sprint across, in hopes of finding Ahmose on the other side. The
thwack
of a loosed arrow flying past and sticking in a cow-hide to my left stopped me cold: I had nearly been struck while running across the target-shooting field.

Another
thwack
and then a high trill of laughter. I searched the archers and saw that Tamit was among them, wrapped in some kind of scarlet cloth I had not seen before. She held the bow at her side and grinned in triumph to those who stood around her. I ducked and ran around to the back of the strung-up hides, hoping Tamit had not seen me.

I was out the other side of the archer’s field and into the crush of the people again. They formed a circle, ten deep at least, around another game, I could not see what.

I wormed through the people, each of them too focused on the fight to pay me attention. The rapping of sticks in the center of the circle told me that two prize fighters tore at each other. Each would have a short stick and another small piece of wood tied to their left arm to protect them from their opponent’s blows. The sticks struck each other in a steady
tap, tap, tap
mixed with the slide of sandaled feet on the ground. Then would come a pause, and the crowd would yell its approval at a blow that struck flesh.

My anger and frustration built. I could not find Ahmose. Had he gone to meet with Rashidi?

I looked back at the target range. From this distance and with the blur of faces and bodies, I could not tell if Tamit was still there. I had not seen Khufu since I emerged from under the arena.

Was this it? Had the time come?

I cursed myself for my selfishness. My desire to prove my own innocence had stayed my hand last night, when I should have slit Rashidi’s throat in the temple and been done with it. There would have been no danger today had I done what was right last night. But it would seem that my desire for justice and truth was largely focused on finding it for myself first of all.

I tried to scramble through the crowd toward the palace, in hopes that if the three had gone to meet the priest, this is where it would be done. I did not imagine Khufu holding audience anywhere else. And since he had declared himself Ra on earth, he had stopped going to the temple. After all, why should a god go to sacrifice to other gods?

The overwhelming stench of humanity—the perfume, the sweat, the beer—it sickened me until I knew I must get apart, if for only a moment. I stumbled to the granary that bordered the palace and stepped out of the sun into its cool silence. My labored breathing was the only sound that echoed along the granary’s walls. I pressed my slick forehead against the brick, braced my fingertips there, and focused on a tiny crack that ran from the base of the wall to disappear under my sandal.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

When the silence and coolness had fortified me, I moved to the doorway of the granary. From here I could see the entrance to the palace. If I had come earlier, I could have watched for the three to enter, or the priest to go ahead of them. It was possible they were already inside.

I was a fool for thinking I could stop this.

The royal estate was like a pot filled to overflowing, boiling its wretched excess out onto the ground. I yearned for the hardened simplicity of my pyramid and the beautiful lines of my charts.

But today was not a day for building. It was a day for destruction.

I ran for the palace entrance.