The Eye of Horus (40 page)

I found Pagosh first, lying faceup in a pool of blood with one arm stretched out straight. His other hand still clutched his gaping throat, as if he had tried to hold it together to keep the blood from escaping his body—and with it his
ka.

In the instant I realized he was gone, I glanced to either side of the path ahead, searching for some sign of Aset. Expecting—I don’t know—to find her the same, I suppose. But I could not find even a footprint in the sun-baked dirt to indicate what direction they had taken. Surely there had to be more than one to have taken Pagosh. I looked back at him and saw that the blood had not yet soaked into the hard-packed earth. That meant the murderous act had taken place only a few minutes before I arrived. Not that it would have mattered had I come sooner, for no man can survive such carnage, not even Pagosh.

I knew he would already have been urging me on my way, yet I puzzled over his stretched-out arm—as if he reached
out to Amen for help. But that did not fit the man, so I squatted down to sight along his arm, and looking up saw the colored banners flying from the twin towers of Horemheb’s massive pylon. Then, with the bile of fear rising in my throat I got up and ran, imploring Thoth as I went to let me find her before it was too late—that I would not come upon her as I had him.

Nor did I slow my steps when finally I came in sight of the temple. The area in front of the great gateway stood empty, and the place struck me as eerily still. Then, in the distance, like an echo from across the valley, came a long, keening cry. Mourners in the Place of Truth, I thought, or an injured animal.

I looked up as a shadow passed over me, and saw what appeared to be a giant bird silhouetted against the brilliant sky, wings outstretched in flight. But instead of soaring higher it came toward me, just as Tutankhamen’s Horus of the Sky had plummeted toward earth on that day so long ago.

I could do nothing to stop what was happening this time, either.

She struck the stone parapet of the balcony where the god makes his appearances on special feast days, across the center of her body. She seemed to bounce, for her legs flipped back into the air, then she disappeared over the edge, toward the inside, onto the god’s platform.

How I got into the pylon I do not recall, but the soldiers who stand guard there must have had been paid to absent themselves, which I realize now was why the forecourt struck me as too quiet. Inside, I started up the spiral stairs and was perhaps halfway to the door to the balcony when two priests came down from above, so fast that they knocked me out of their way, making me lose my footing.

When I straightened I looked into the brown eyes of a woman who wore a veil across the rest of her face. “You are too late,
sunu.
The game he played is over.”

My blood went cold, but I forced my way past her, intent
on reaching Aset before it was too late. When I burst through the door that opened onto the god’s balcony I saw her lying on her side with her right shoulder slumped forward, both knees drawn up toward the center of her body. Blood spilled from the soles of her feet, but I put my hand to her neck first, to see if she still lived, and felt my heart leap with joy.

I tore off my kilt, ripped it into strips, and wrapped them around her feet to slow the bleeding. When I turned her over, cupping her head in my hand to keep her neck straight, I found blood on her tunic, just below her breasts, and lifted her carefully into my arms. A few broken ribs for sure, I thought, then stood up and started down the stairs, careful to guard her feet in the enclosed space.

It was not until I was in the light again that I noticed her left hand—all bloody and mangled, with the fingers bent at odd angles. Two fingernails had been ripped off and the others were so engorged with blood they had turned purple, as if an elephant had stepped on them, mashing the flesh and splintering every bone.

I tried to run, but pink foam oozed from the corner of her mouth with each agonizing breath she tried to take, so I knew that at least one lung had been punctured. But she was alive!

At Ramose’s gate I sent the gateman scurrying for Ruka, the one person I could count on to fetch Senmut and Mena without delay, then instructed the gateman to take enough men with him to carry Pagosh home.

Merit met me at the door of our quarters, took one look at what I carried, and asked, “My husband is with Osiris?” I nodded, for in truth I could not utter a word.

“Hurry,” she urged, and led the way to our sleeping room. I put Aset on our couch, trying to cushion where I knew her bones were broken, and prayed to Thoth that she would not come awake until I had them set. That is not possible with ribs, of course, yet I must find some way to ease her breathing.

Merit brought blankets to help hold her body’s heat, which is necessary to maintain life, then water and clean
cloths to wash away the dried blood. I was anxious about her labored breathing and worried that Ruka might not be able to find Senmut, who is more experienced at reading the signs of internal injuries that result from a blow to the body. Nor do my surgical skills equal his.

Merit bathed her lacerated feet while I worked over her hand, supporting it with a piece of dried oxhide. First I straightened the fingers as best I could, though they already had swelled to twice their usual size, and still bled where the nails had been. Then I taped her entire hand to the hide with strips of linen moistened with hoof glue.

Senmut brought Nebet as well, and I told them everything, how and where her body struck the parapet, and all the rest—leaving out only my encounter with the woman who gave her life, for that score no one else can settle. Not even Aset’s father.

Senmut pulled the blanket away and put his ear to her chest, just above her left breast, then moved his head to the other side. Except for her wheezing it was so quiet we might have been holding our breaths. Nor was there any moaning or crying from Nebet and Merit, as some women are prone to do.

“Has she awakened at all?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not even when I aligned the bones in her fingers.”

“Probably because she cannot get enough air. The fluid in her chest keeps her lungs from filling. The only way to relieve it is to insert a hollow reed, but I will be honest, Tenre. Even that does not always succeed. The reed can become clogged with blood or mucus, or the lung may be so torn it cannot hold air.”

“Then we waste time talking.” Merit brought more cloths and water for Senmut to cleanse his hands while I purified the thin, narrow blade of his own design in the flame of a lamp.

He went in through her right side, five or six finger widths below her armpit, holding the reed tight against the flat
blade but back from the tip. In that way he inserted the reed as he cut. She cried out once, a sound more catlike than human, making tears start behind my eyelids. The instant he punched through to the chest cavity, a stream of bloody fluid began to run from the end of the reed into the bowl I held ready.

Senmut pulled his blade free, leaving the reed protruding from her side, and motioned for me to hold it there. Then he circled her extended arm to stand at her head and squeezed her jaws to force her lips open, put his mouth to hers and blew into her, to breathe for her. Again and again, until I lost count.

“Something pushes back,” I said. He instructed me to withdraw the reed a little at a time while he continued blowing into her mouth. By the time the reed came free, her breathing was no longer so noisy.

While he pressed a pad to the cut to slow the bleeding, I had to sit down until I could get my legs back. Afterward he helped me wrap her ribs to prevent more damage, and for a time then the hours crawled so slowly I wondered if Re had thrown the anchor from his boat.

When finally she did stir it was only to move her left hand, which brought another mewling cry. “A good sign,” Senmut commented, but I knew it for a mixed blessing. Her eyelids began to flutter, and finally opened.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to place where she was, then tried to draw a breath. Her face crumpled with pain, and I hastened to take her right hand in mine. I spoke softly, so as not to startle her. “Stay quiet. All is well.” She turned her head toward me. “Senmut has bandaged your chest, if you wonder why it feels so tight. Better not try to breathe too deeply.” She tried to squeeze my fingers. “Nebet is here, too. And Merit.”

“Meri?” she mouthed.

“She spends the day with Khary and Tamin, remember?” A shiver of apprehension made the hair rise on the back of my neck, for until that moment I had forgotten my daughter.

“I will go fetch her,” Senmut volunteered, “so you can know she is safe.”

“And I will look after her until you mend,” Nebet added, tears clogging her throat.

Aset’s eyes sought mine. “You must … find a way … her safe,” she whispered. “From—” The pain struck without warning when she tried to lift her hand, and a wild look came into her eyes. She moved as if to raise up and see what was wrong, bringing a scream from her throat. Then she fell back, eyes closed, and Senmut rushed to put his ear to her chest.

“We must give her something for the pain, but not so much that it slows her breathing. A child’s dose of mandrake, until we see how she does with that much.”

I was glad for his advice and left her only to get what he needed. When Aset came awake again I explained that her fingers were broken as well as a rib, but she refused to take any mandrake until she knew Meri was safe.

A few minutes later, Nebet and Merit wandered out into the garden, to leave us alone, but I could not bring myself to question her for fear of reviving memories that are better left buried—especially if she saw what they did to Pagosh. So I held her good hand and stroked the back of it with my thumb, the only caress I could offer her without causing more pain.

“Mother?” Meri called a while later, as she came toward our couch all big-eyed and solemn. I could tell Senmut had prepared her for what she would find, and thanked him with my eyes. He nodded, then took himself elsewhere for a time.

“Come here … sweetie.” Aset pulled her hand free of mine and reached for Meri’s. “I only … need … to rest … few days. You go … Nebet … until—”

“Until I come for you,” I finished for her. “You are not to leave Mena’s walls with anyone else, understand?”

“Not even Paga?” Meri asked, looking at me.

“Paga is with Osiris,” Aset whispered. So she did know.

‘Truly?” When her mother nodded, Meri’s little face dis
solved in tears. Without warning, tears flooded my own eyes, forcing me to turn away, for it hit me suddenly that I would see his intransigent face no more, nor have to guess at the meaning behind his cryptic words. The rock I had leaned on for so long was gone from this world.

“There is … no shame … in crying … for those we love. As I have. Many times.” She meant it for me as much as Meri, so I turned back to let her see that I mourned him, too.

After Nebet and Senmut took Meri away, Aset accepted a few swallows of the mandrake and finally dozed off. Yet I continued to hold her hand, to let her know I was there even while she slept. Or perhaps I actually believed I could keep Osiris from taking her, should he come again in the night.

My memory grows blurred after that, but sometime during the night I turned to find Ramose staring at her pale face—the rage that burned in his eyes making the veins in his forehead bulge and throb. I knew then that he had seen Pagosh’s body.

“They left proof of their cowardice behind, atop the god’s gate,” he informed me, keeping his gaze on her ruined hand. “A rock the size of a man’s head. Did they use the razor on her as well?”

I told him what they had done to her feet, then wished I hadn’t when he caught sight of the blood already soaking through the bandaging. An instant later he turned and strode from the room.

As Re went to his death in the west, Merit brought me a carafe of wine, bread, and dates, for she knows I will not sleep. Nor, I suspect, will she, so I asked her to sit with me for a while. “Your husband tried to save her even as his
ka
departed his body,” I told her, and explained how I knew to look in the direction of the temple.

She nodded. “Aset changed him, gentled him.”

“Not only Aset,” I added. “Even his voice changed when he spoke of you.”

“He told me once that he never truly trusted any man before you.”

“Would you like me to accompany him to the Per Nefer?”

“Ramose had him carried there an hour ago, but I would appreciate your advice, Tenre. My lord has offered us a place in his own eternal home. And to be with the High Priest of Amen is a high honor indeed, but … well, we planned our own place, to be together forever when my time comes.”

“In this you must do as you wish, Merit, or what you know Pagosh wanted, not someone else.” She let her tears flow, then, for the first time, but not for long. Nor did she voice her fear for Aset, out of kindness to me.

“I will be nearby,” she said as she rose from her chair, but paused to tell me more. “The High Priest has caused four men to be hoisted to the top of the god’s gate, where they hang by their feet as a warning to others who may think of deserting their posts. Already the vultures have pecked the eyes from their heads.”

So it begins. Ramose must know whose hand arranged it all, for it carries her mark. Revenge in kind—ordering Aset’s feet slashed to brand her an adulterer in retribution for the cartoons where she accused Horemheb of turning a blind eye to his own unfaithful wife, crushing the hand that exposed Nefertiti as the murderer of her own child and grandchild, so Aset will never draw another, in this life or the next. And finally, throwing her from the pylon Horemheb built—the Pharaoh whose edict Aset branded as cruel and unjust.