City of Dreams (14 page)

Ankhu and Nebamun would have it easier, but for the majority of privileged men work was a nominal activity as they laboured more or less intelligently in the upper ranks of the army, the civil service and the priesthood; most of the graft was done for them at a humbler level. The boy was quieter than his sister, and gave tongue-tied answers. His sister’s death seemed to have affected him more deeply, though he bore himself with a kind of frightened dignity in front of his father.

Talking to Nephthys was a way of getting to know her dead sister by proxy, for she had plenty of spirit, and within her there was a streak of rebellion against her family, particularly her father, though there was no hint of it in any word she spoke. Nephthys was younger than her brother, but seemed older, and more sure of herself. Her independence was further underlined by an impending marriage, news of which she now shared with Taheb. Marriage, though it was to be to a priest, and thus well within her world, represented an escape from her family. Huy wondered what the husband was like. Would Nephthys turn into her mother in time? From what was being said, perhaps that was unlikely. Though the marriage had been arranged, Nephthys would be the man’s first wife, and he was near her own age. 

Throughout the interview, Reni kept a Horus eye on proceedings, interrupting, when he felt an irrelevant question had been asked, with the speed and precision of a young judge. It was a relief when a secretary appeared — sent by his oldest daughter — and summoned him away on business that had to be decided that night. He left with reluctance; but his departure did not make conversation any easier. Huy had the impression that a body servant was lurking somewhere within earshot, to report any indiscretions back to Reni, and that everybody knew this.

It had grown dark, and the night, for the season, was unpleasantly close. After a short time, Reni’s wife excused herself, and everyone stood, watching her wend her way through the small jungle, looking lonelier than ever as she went. An awkward pause followed, and Huy, feeling that he had learnt all he could, made no attempt to continue the conversation. He had one question left, and he wanted to put it to one or other of the children alone. He hoped that only one of them would accompany Taheb and himself to the door, and he hoped that person would be Nephthys. Whether Taheb had divined this, he did not know, but as she rose to leave, she linked arms with the girl, and turned towards the gate.

‘Good night,’ Huy said to the boy. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure your sister can see us to the gate. And thank your parents again.’

‘I will,’ replied Nebamun. There was an appeal in his eyes which Huy could not read.

As he was leaving, the boy seized his elbow, bringing his face close.

‘Where can I find you?’

‘I live in the harbour district. Taheb knows.’

‘All right.’ The strong hand let go of his arm, and Nebamun stepped back.

‘Goodbye,’ he said again, in a clear voice.

‘Goodbye.’

Huy watched him retreat and then followed Taheb and Nephthys, finding them talking softly at the gate. Nephthys, her arms folded, leant on the jamb, her hair softened by a halo of light from the gatekeeper’s lamp. Her clear face betrayed no grief or anxiety at all. The door stood open and beyond it on the pavement was cast the shadow of the Med jay posted to keep watch.

‘Nephthys,’ said Huy, drawing her aside. ‘Where did your sister get the tattoo?’

The girl looked at him in wonder. ‘What tattoo?’ she asked.

‘She had a scorpion tattooed on her shoulder.’

The girl’s eyes became even wider, then she suppressed a laugh. ‘That was just like her. I’m sorry, you must think I have no feelings at all. But I admired her. She was the only one who stood up to him.’ She laughed again. ‘I can’t believe it! He’d have killed her if he’d known.’

‘But didn’t he see the body?’

Nephthys looked at him. ‘I’m certain he hasn’t seen one of us naked, ever. I don’t even know how we got to be born. My poor mother has slept alone as long as I can remember.’

‘What about his other wives?’

‘He doesn’t have any. Nor any concubines. He spends nearly all his time, day and night, with Iryt, my big sister. They have an office at the far end of the south wing.’

‘Why didn’t she join us tonight?’

Nephthys shrugged. ‘She’s always busy. Even we never see her.’ She looked at him. ‘You can draw what conclusions you like from that. I just can’t wait to get out of this house.’

‘Do you hate it so much?’

‘I’d have married a boatman to get out.’

‘Why?’

She was about to answer, but the gatekeeper approached, giving Huy a suspicious look.

‘Time to close up,’ he said sourly.

Nephthys smiled at Huy a little sadly. ‘I’m counting the days. Goodnight.’

They did not talk much in the litter on the way back to Taheb’s house. Huy was wondering how much truth there had been in what Ipuky had said about his sons. Taheb’s skin still crawled from the scribe’s touch.

‘His poor wife,’ she said, finally.

‘It seems he prefers the company of his daughter Iryt.’

‘Sometimes neglect is worse than abuse.’

‘Then she should leave him.’

‘How can she? What would she do? Her only hope is widowhood.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘And now she’s got to bear the death of her daughter. Why do you think Reni said that no one had any reason to suspect a second killing?’ Huy looked thoughtfully out through the curtains of the litter at the night sky, bright in the silence with the light of a million stars.

EIGHT

The search for Surere, the first of its kind ever to be conducted by the Medjays, had been organised with precision by Merymose. The Southern Capital had been divided into eight segments, like slices of the round, flat loaves the Semite guest workers baked, each segment’s inner edge bisecting one of the main quarters of the town, into which it was split by the two main thoroughfares, one running north-to-south, and the other east-to-west, which met at the centre. Most police were concentrated in the crowded districts of irregular streets, such as the harbour quarter, and special details were dispatched to the privately-run brothels which did not fall under the control of the priesthood. Nubenehem, her peace made with him, complained of this bitterly to Huy; the attentions of the Medjays had cost her a day’s profit, with the following day well below average on takings, as frightened clients stayed away. Following an instinct based on Huy’s description, for what it was worth, of the house where he’d met Surere, Merymose sent Medjays out of uniform — another innovation — to the good residential districts.

All of which led to nothing. Not even the raids on the town’s three gay brothels brought forth a whisper of information about Surere’s whereabouts, and after four days of intensive hunting, over ground which included the Valley of the Great Tombs on the west bank of the river, Merymose began to think that perhaps, after all, the escaped
political
had done as he had told Huy he would, and left for the northern deserts to found his religious community. The thought came as no relief to Merymose, for although the loss of his quarry might not mean his dismissal from the Medjays, he could expect demotion, or at best to end his days in no higher rank than he held now. He reflected gloomily on the price of his ambition, because he had gone out on a limb to persuade a mistrustful and increasingly hostile Kenamun to consent to the operation he had mounted, and then he had only achieved it by linking Surere to the serial killings.

If it were now fixed in Kenamun’s mind that Surere was the killer, another murder would be all that would save Merymose’s neck. And yet he had been thorough, efficient, and ruthless in his investigation, not drawing the line at torture to extract information where he thought it might be withheld. But a new thought struck him — another murder might lead his superior to assume that Surere was, after all, still hiding out in the Southern Capital, and that, too, would hardly be to Merymose’s credit. Merymose had not been left much by life apart from his career. Now it looked as if that, too, were coming apart.

Surere could not disappear in the way that he had without powerful help. Merymose had to find out where that help came from, but he told himself that he had no reason to suspect Huy of withholding any more information. The risk would certainly not be worth it to the little ex-scribe.

The tail end of the search for Surere was still in progress when they found the fourth girl. She was near the east bank of the River, five hundred paces south of the town, lying on a flat white rock where the crocodiles could not get her, though by the time she was discovered by a Med jay patrol at the sixth hour of day when the sun was at its highest, the vultures had eaten her eyes and part of her face, and the flies were so glutted that they could not leave the feast unless they were picked off. As the season progressed, so had the heat, and Huy and Merymose stood over the body with their heads wrapped in linen cloths to protect them from the sun.

‘We had better get her away from here,’ said the Medjay healer, removing the last of the flies and quickly wrapping the corpse in a linen sheet before any more could settle. ‘That is, if you want her examined before she falls apart.’ He turned away to supervise his two assistants, who manhandled the small bundle on to the back of a covered ox-cart.

As it drove slowly away towards the town, so the small knot of idlers and gawpers dispersed, back to the quays and the eating houses to tell about what they’d seen, and Huy and Merymose were left alone.

‘What do you think?’ Huy asked him, as they looked at the rock. The flies had returned to cluster on two small lakes of dried blood, all that remained here to show where the girl had lain, apart from the lingering smell.

‘It’s the same, isn’t it? Except that the body wasn’t found soon enough. I don’t envy the embalmers.’

‘No.’ Huy was pensive. He had told Merymose nothing of his thoughts about Ipuky and Reni — sensing the policeman’s disappointment and mistrust when he told him that he had been able to find out no more than he had himself. All his reservations were based on intuition, supposition. He had nothing to give Merymose to take to Kenamun, and the priest-administrator would not thank him for information which cast suspicion on two of the most powerful men in the country. At the same time, the more he delayed, the greater Surere’s danger was.

The girl’s body had been laid out just as the others, and it had been the work of a moment to discover the tiny stab wound under the soft left breast.

‘I’ve sent men into the palace compound to find out which household she was from.’ Merymose was tense. ‘The outcry will raise Set. I must find the man who did this.’

Huy stooped to pick something off the ground, that lay three-quarters hidden in the rough yellow grass that grew around the sides of the stone. It reflected the sunlight dully in his hands, dangling from a broken chain. It was an amulet of Ishtar.

By the eighth hour, all the Med jays sent to the palace compound were back. No one had been reported missing. Not a servant-girl; not even a slave, though the enquiries themselves had stirred up panic. 

‘Are they sure?’ asked Huy.

‘Certain. I would not be mistaken over this,’ replied Merymose shortly.

‘One household overlooked would be enough.’

They had received the reports in the Place of Healing, where the body lay in the courtyard, protected from the flies and the heat by wet wrappings, waiting for someone to claim it and give permission for an examination to begin, before it was taken to the embalmers. By the twelfth hour of day, as the sun sailed west and inclined towards the horizon, finally allowing the north wind to bring its cooling relief, still no one had come.

‘If we don’t look at her now, we won’t get a chance at all,’ said the Medjay healer, who had returned and partially unwrapped the body. ‘I’ve dressed the eye-wounds but the rot has started. If no embalmers collect her tomorrow, she must go to the lime pit.’

‘Is it still light enough to work?’ asked Merymose, standing, and walking across to the doctor to look down at the body.

‘Yes. It will be an hour before Nut swallows the sun.’

Merymose glanced at Huy. ‘Then I think we should begin.’

‘And if her relatives turn up?’ said the doctor.

‘Then I will explain,’ replied Merymose, with a confidence he did not feel. However to take no action would be worse than to risk insulting the dead.

A faint noise, like sighing, was brought into the courtyard on the wind. Merymose looked around the darkening corners, wondering if it was the girl’s
Ka
. Would it object to this treatment of its old dwelling before the proper rites had been observed? The doctor, covering his nose and mouth with a cloth and summoning an assistant, carefully began to unwrap the body, supporting it in his arms like a mother or a lover. He laid it back on the table and went over to another, producing a small leather bag from his kilt. Laying it on the table he opened it, and took out a selection of fine flint knives.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said wrily, noticing Merymose’s expression. ‘The spirits respect me; I have had to do with the dead for a long time.’ 

These dead are my responsibility,’ replied the policeman. ‘It might have been possible to prevent this.’

‘You did what you could. The dead know us; they know what is within our power to achieve and to prevent.’

Huy bent over the body silently. The damaged young face had been beautiful. A high forehead curved back gently into a rich tangle of dark, curled hair; she had an aquiline nose, full, sensual lips and a proud chin. The teeth were unusually white; strong and regular.

The assistant lit torches at her head and feet, and the light from these outlined the contours of her dark skin.

‘Would you say that this is her natural colour?’ he asked.

The doctor came over and looked. ‘It is sunburn,’ he said finally, ‘I had not noticed.’

Huy had taken one of her hands in his, running his thumb across it.

‘Feel this,’ he said to Merymose, who had come up in turn. The policemen could see that the skin was rough, and the nails, though diligently polished, were chipped and broken.

‘Perhaps, in the struggle,’ suggested the doctor. He held a slender knife aloft. ‘Now, if you would just give me room.’

What struggle, thought Huy and Merymose simultaneously. There should have been no struggle.

‘Just a moment,’ said Huy. Then he looked at Merymose. ‘Her feet.’

There was no need to touch them. The soles were hard, and the edges of the big and little toes carried a rind.

‘Look at the anklet,’ said Merymose, suddenly. Huy did so. It was made of copper.

Huy grabbed one of the torches and brought it closer, careless of the wax dripping on to the dead skin. The girl wore no other jewellery — now, at least; but he noticed that the long lobes of her ears were pierced, and that there was a slight graze on the side of her neck. There were other, dark marks on her shoulders and sides. He turned to the doctor questioningly.

‘Bruises, of course,’ said the healer. ‘I told you there had been a struggle. She’d been badly beaten up, poor kid. Three ribs are broken. Now, if you’ll let me get to work while there’s still light, I ought to be able to confirm what I suspected when I first saw her — ‘ He paused, bending over the body, a long hardwood implement in his hand. Breathing through his mouth, he manipulated his probe between her legs. After a minute, he straightened up.

‘What is it?’ asked Merymose.

‘She was raped. In both the nether gates. But she was no virgin before it happened, if that’s of any interest to you.’

Huy produced the little amulet of Ishtar from the linen pouch at his belt. He looked at Merymose. ‘This should have told me more, earlier.’

Merymose returned the scribe’s gaze, telling himself once again that there was no reason, surely, to distrust him.

An hour later, standing in the darkness, so far from having the fourth murder in a series, they had a new killing: one which was superficially like the others, but whose only real resemblance lay in the infliction of one particular wound, and the manner and location in which the body was laid out after death. The girl, whoever she was, despite the aristocratic looks and fine body which had at first misled them, would only have found houseroom within the palace compound as an under-servant.

‘It’s much more likely that she was a whore,’ said the doctor, having washed his hands and arms, and rewrapped the body. ‘She wasn’t clean enough to have been a harem girl. But it’s hard to imagine what she did to deserve a fate like this.’

Her sunburnt skin and her rough hands and feet made her poor. The copper anklet was probably the only thing of value she had possessed, and it was curious that it had not been stolen, for all metal was valuable in the Black Land. It was the little amulet which told them most about the girl. The cult of the goddess Ishtar had come into the Black Land with settlers from the far north-east where the Twin Rivers flowed. But the settlers had been courtiers, the sons and daughters of kings and dukes exchanged in marriages which formed part of peace treaties between the Black Land and the Nation of the North-East. The cult had remained after those who had brought it had embraced the gods of the Black Land, the true gods, the gods of the land in which they now lived, but it remained as no more than a fashion among the rich. It was a fashion now past. Only among the poor, the retainers who had accompanied their masters and later fallen from favour, or among the half-caste children brought up by superstitious mothers true to their old faith, did the little goddess of love and war retain a true following. There would be few such people in the Black Land now. Huy hoped that the discovery would ease the task of finding out who the girl had been.

‘Why do you think she was killed?’ asked Merymose as they made their way from the Place of Healing to Kenamun’s office.

‘I don’t know. If we knew why she was killed in that way we would be closer to the truth.’

‘It’s simple. He’s becoming violent.’

‘Did this girl struggle; make him lose his temper?’ Huy said, and then had another question. ‘But why change the
kind
of victim? This girl was poor and sullied.’

‘Do you look for reason in madness?’ asked Merymose.

‘I thought we were dealing with an obsession.’

‘But why copy the method, if this time the killer is someone else?’

‘Who knows that there is a method to copy?’ said Huy quietly. ‘Only a very few people.’

‘Only a few that we know of,’ said Merymose. They fell silent. Then the policeman continued, if the method was copied in order to make us believe that the crime was committed by the killer of the other girls, then our new killer is either clumsy, or stupid.’

‘Or clever.’