Year of the Hyenas (29 page)

Hunro stroked
her
son’s head, pushing the hair from his eyes. “Rami,” she said, “please.
You must do this thing.”

Rami smiled
weakly at
his mother, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mother, but the jewels are
gone,” he whispered. “I don’t even know where they are.” He dropped his
head and refused to look at her.

“Let a stick
be
brought!” shouted Qar.

A branch,
thick and
pliable, was cut from an acacia tree in the temple garden. When its
thorns had been shaved away and the leaves removed, Qar deemed it
serviceable. He brought it to Neferhotep.

“Take it. Whip
him
until he confesses where his mother’s jewels are.”

Neferhotep
exchanged
glances with Khepura. Semerket watched them closely. Neferhotep’s voice
rang clearly out over the crowd. “I cannot.”

“It is the
law!” Qar
thundered.

“I cannot whip
him.
Rami is not my son.”

A chorus of
gasps
erupted from the tombmakers. Their faces wore expressions ranging from
shock to glee. Hunro put a hand to her throat where a blue vein
throbbed.

“I have
concealed my
shame from the village long enough,” Neferhotep continued in the same
clear voice, though he affected a grief-stricken stance. “It is the
cuckoo’s egg that has hatched in my house. Paneb is the father of Rami.
My wife is an adulteress. Paneb must punish his own son.”

Semerket
instantly
realized the full import of Neferhotep’s words. Hunro was to be
denounced as an adulteress and arrested. The jewels were gone; now the
chief witness against the tombmakers would be put away as well.

Paneb’s roar
of rage
caught everyone by surprise.

“You bastard!”
he
shouted at Neferhotep. “You’ve made me do terrible things in your
time—but you can’t make me do this!” Paneb rose to his full impressive
height. He seized the acacia branch from Qar, and his knuckles were
white as he gripped it. The branch hissed through the air as he charged
forward.

Neferhotep
ran. He
broke through the crowd of tombmakers and sped down the hill to the
village gates. “Stop him!” he implored the villagers as he passed.
“Somebody make him stop! He’s a crazy person!”

No one
intervened.

Paneb caught
Neferhotep by the gates, bringing the branch across his shoulders.
Neferhotep screamed like a hare caught in a hyena’s jaws and tripped,
rolling in the sands, trying to protect his face.

By this time
Qar and
Semerket had caught up to the big foreman. They clung to his arms, but
he continued to lash at Neferhotep until sweat dripped from his brow.
In desperation Qar threw himself between Paneb and the scribe.
Neferhotep immediately seized his chance and leapt again to his feet,
fleeing through the gates and into the village corridor.

Paneb flung
Qar aside
as if he were a child, running after Neferhotep for the entire length
of the village’s main street, kicking aside the pottery and refuse at
the villagers’ doors. Dogs barked after them, feeding the confusion and
tumult. Neferhotep reached his house just as Paneb caught him. The
scribe flung himself through his door, sliding the bolt behind him.

“Come out of
there,
Nef!” Paneb roared, pounding on the door. “I’ve killed before—what’s
another death to me? I’m damned whatever happens, thanks to you!”

It was Qar,
accompanied by other Medjays, who subdued the foreman, clubbing Paneb
over the head with the butt end of his spear. Paneb fell, stunned. The
Medjays bound him then with ropes, thrusting a pole through his bonds.
They carried him away on their shoulders as if he were a trussed
antelope. Qar gave the orders to also bind Rami. When this was done,
father and son were taken to the prison in the Medjay headquarters at
the edge of the Great Place.

Semerket and
Qar could
not speak. Finally, turning to Qar, Semerket whispered. “What in hell
just happened here?”

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the news was brought
to them that Hunro had been arrested by a women’s delegation headed by
Khepura. She was taken, struggling and cursing, to be imprisoned in the
cell located at the back of the village. The jewels were gone, and so,
too, was their chief witness, just as Semerket had foreseen.

Qar was at
last moved
to action. “It’s time to take back control of this,” he said.

That evening
the sound
of tramping feet caught the tombmakers unawares. Realizing that men
and not spirits made the noises, the villagers crept from their houses
to gawk from their doors. In the corridor they saw a cadre of Medjays
walking two abreast. Captain Mentmose led them, their spears held at
the ready. At one of the alleys the Medjays turned.

Moments later
the
villagers heard loud knocks on some distant door. From over the walls
came Khepura’s surprised screams, followed by angry shouts from her
sons. The tombmakers stared at one another with frightened eyes. They
began to gather in the corridor, afraid and silent, just as the Medjays
reemerged into it.

To their
dismay they
saw Khepura’s husband, the goldsmith Sani, being led away in manacles.
The Medjays unceremoniously prodded Sani toward the northern gate.
Sani’s face was so fearful that he appeared almost unrecognizable to
his neighbors. The Medjays roughly shoved aside any of the tombmakers
who stumbled in their way.

Khepura’s
screams of
anguish erupted into the corridor, pursuing the Medjays down its entire
length. “Sani!” she screeched. “Sani—!” But the Medjays continued to
force the goldsmith ahead of them, using the points of their spears.
Khepura collapsed in the corridor, shrieking her husband’s name again
and again, surrounded by her sons. “He is a good man,” she wailed.
“Bring him back to me!”

Qar looked
back into
the village corridor. Half-expecting to see an angry mob, he saw
instead families huddled together in their doorways, their expressions
resigned, as if the thing they feared most had at last come to claim
them.

ASSANI WAS LED AWAYby Qar, Semerket slipped from
Hetephras’s house and out of the village. The wind was sharp and only
starlight illuminated the desert. Rain clouds massed on the horizon.
From deep in the Great Place Semerket heard the chirping yelps of a
jackal pack on the prowl. Squinting in their direction, he saw their
dark forms frolicking together on the distant sands. Every so often
they would stop, dig for rodents and grubs, and then move on, grunting
to one another. The hackles on his neck rose; jackals were the dogs of
the cemetery, the companions of death.

He walked
swiftly down
the trail to the village jail cell. It was nothing more than a deep pit
lined in mud brick, over which a small bronze grate was locked. The
villagers had posted no guard, and he approached the grating
unobserved. Kneeling beside it, he heard a small pebble drop to the
cell’s floor far below. The pit must be at least five cubits deep, he
surmised.

“Hunro,” he
whispered
into the cell.

He heard a
small
movement, but could see nothing below. “Semerket?” Her feathery voice
came back to him through the dark.

“I’ve brought
you a
cloak, and some bread. Watch out now—I’m going to drop them to you.”

He pushed the
cloak
through the grating. Then he dropped the loaf of bread to her, though
he had to tear it in half to fit it through the grate.

She was
touched.
“You’re good to remember me, Semerket,” she said.

“We’ve
arrested Sani.
He’s going to be tortured if he doesn’t tell us what he knows, Hunro.
Paneb’s already in custody. The day after, and every day after that,
the Medjays will arrest another member of the work gang until one
confesses.”

There was no
reply
from her at first. Then he heard her muttering into the dark,
“Horrible…”

“I want you to
know
that I’ll save Rami if I can. But you must warn him, Hunro, that his
only hope is to confess. It will be to his advantage if he does. Will
you tell him?”

It was a
moment before
she spoke again. “If I see him again, yes. Thank you, Semerket.”

“Tomorrow at
first
light I’m going to Djamet to see the vizier. He’ll order your release.”

She was
silent. He
thought she must be weeping again, but when her voice reached him it
was surprisingly calm.

“Goodbye,
Semerket,”
she said.

Reluctantly,
he stood
up and brushed the dirt from his knees. As he adjusted his woolen
mantle about his shoulders, he happened to look in the direction of the
Great Place. Six pairs of gleaming yellow eyes stared back. The jackals
stood very near to him, bold and unafraid. He made a threatening
gesture at them and stamped his foot. The jackals turned and fled down
the trail, stopping occasionally to return his stare.

The desert
wind rushed
at him from over the dunes, grit-laden and chill. Shivering, he trudged
to the village kitchens to fetch his evening’s meal from the servants.
Lost in his thoughts, fearing for Hunro, he pushed open the door
without thinking who might be behind it.

Khepura and
her sons
sat in a tight circle, surrounded by their neighbors. As she wept, her
sons bent over her, begging her to be brave. Other tombmakers murmured
words of comfort, saying they knew in their hearts that Sani would be
home soon, that the Medjays could not possibly keep him in jail for
very long…

Khepura moaned
that
she feared her husband would be beaten by the Medjays—that he was not
young—that he could not possibly survive such treatment. At this last,
she broke into fresh wails.

Semerket came
through
the gate and the tombmakers instantly were silent, dropping their
heads to glare at him from hooded eyes. Semerket cursed his luck to
find himself surrounded by resentful villagers. His only course was to
brave it out and hope there would be no confrontation.

Semerket
nodded to
them, refusing to meet their gaze, and headed for the hearths. He
directed the attending servant to give him a jar of beer, and asked
another woman to fill a bowl with greens and cheese. Semerket was on
the point of leaving, but as he turned from the hearth he found that
Khepura was standing directly behind him, blocking his exit, her
expression malignant.

“It was you
who had my
husband arrested,” she muttered accusingly.

“No,” he said
firmly.
“The Medjays arrested him.”

“You were
behind it.”

“Blame
yourself,
Khepura—he wouldn’t be in jail had you not taken Hunro away.”

“Sneferu told
us about
the pot, how you tricked him into repairing it. Do you think we don’t
know what you’re trying to do to us—making innocent people into
criminals so you’ll look good to the vizier?”

Semerket felt
his face
redden with anger. He wanted to laugh at her words, to fling
accusations at her. So they were innocent people, were they? He knew in
his heart that Khepura had something to do with the disappearance of
Hunro’s jewels, even though Rami had taken the blame. Hot words began
to bubble to his lips, his tongue freed of its usual sluggishness. It
was all he could do not to tell her— tell them all—that though the
villagers may have slipped through the noose by their timely theft of
Hunro’s jewels, he would soon tighten it again.

But he saw her
four
strong sons glowering at him, ready to spring if their mother gave the
word. Semerket placed his jar of beer on the hearth, beside his bowl of
greens. Turning to them, forcing his voice to remain calm, he only
said, “If your husband is innocent, Khepura, then you needn’t be
afraid.”

“He
is
innocent. It’s
you
who are guilty.” Her
invective came pouring out like molten lead. “I know Hunro was with you
last night. I know what went on, don’t think I don’t. I could have you
imprisoned on the very same charge of adultery if I chose. I’m head
woman here and it counts for something—though you think you’re so much
better than us.”

The flush of
anger
again surged through him. The unguarded words came spilling out. “You
couldn’t arrest me, Khepura,” he said, “because you know your own
husband is guilty of the charge. Tell me this—did Sani ever bring you
jewels from a tomb, as he did Hunro?”

Khepura
gasped, and
backed away from him. Her sons erupted in violent protests. Semerket
immediately rued his words, though he could not deny the pleasure they
brought him. Hurriedly he turned back to the hearth for his food,
wanting to leave before the villagers jumped upon him. But his beer and
the bowl of greens and cheese were gone. Irritated, he called to the
servant. After searching the kitchen for a few moments, she located his
meal at the end of a long wooden bench.

He left the
kitchen,
returning to Hetephras’s house. Sukis greeted him at the door and wound
herself around his ankles, enticed by the aroma of his meal. The yellow
cat followed him into the house. Placing the beer and bowl on the brick
bench in the reception room, Semerket looked about for a candle. The
moment he went into the kitchen, Sukis leapt brazenly atop the bench
and seized a piece of cheese.

“Spoiled
Sukis!” he
said, making a hissing noise from the door to shoo her away. She jumped
from the bench and sat, tail erect and twitching, her eyes following
him. He went to find a candle. There was none in the kitchen, but he
remembered that a fresh bundle of them was in the cellar. Downstairs,
he groped about until he found them.

Once again in
the
kitchen he pulled his flint from his sash and managed to light the
wick. He sniffed at the beer. Again the servants had overflavored the
brew with herbs. The bowl of lettuce and cheese had a bitter scent as
well. A tiny warning bell rang in the back of his mind.

Before he
could even
give thought to the suspicion, however, he heard a small retching sound
coming from the reception room. He held the candle high and beheld
Sukis walking stiff-legged on the tiles, struggling to reach him,
coming toward him with a comical mincing strut. Strange hacking sounds
erupted from her throat and Semerket saw foam bubbling from her jaws.
She was trembling.