Lynda Robinson: Murder in the Place of Anubis

A chair appeared in the hands of one of the scribes. The man set it near his master, but Meren only leaned on its back. "Master Ahmose, there is trouble."

"And there is sand in the desert and water in the Nile. Your ka draws trouble as a whore attracts sailors."

"I don't seek out trouble."

"Your father was of like spirit, and that's why the Heretic killed him. At least you learned from his example."

At the mention of his father, Meren lowered his eyes. Removing a hand from the chair, he touched the tips of his fingers to the bronze dagger in his belt. The cold metal eased his ka, and he lifted his eyes once more.

Ahmose was watching him. "You've learned much."

"I'm not a youth anymore. Master Ahmose, I would speak with you about one of your officials. Hormin, a scribe of records and tithes. He has been murdered in the Place of Anubis."

"I know. One of the priests came to tell me."

Ahmose got up and stepped down from the dais. Meren joined him, and they walked out into a courtyard. Ahmose took refuge from the sun on a stool under a sycamore beside a reflection pool. Meren sat at his feet.

"Well, boy, why are you looking for the killer? Hormin was a contentious man, a plump goose stuffed with hatred and basted with rancor. There's no need to search out one who has relieved so many of a vicious annoyance."

Meren shook his head and studied a yellow fish in the reflection pool. "Murder is a sin against Maat, the divine order of justice and lightness. You taught me about Maat, and now you want me to allow an offense against the harmony of Pharaoh's kingdom?"

"Hormin was an offense in himself," Ahmose said. "I know you, Meren. You won't stop until you've conducted inquiries, pursued the lion into the desert, brought down the waterfowl with your throw stick. But think on this. No matter how many rebels you subdue or criminals you banish into the desert, you'll never right the injustice done against your father."

Meren rose and faced Ahmose. "Are you going to tell me whom I should question, or will I have to spend days speaking to each man in the office of records and tithes?"

Using a black-smudged finger, Ahmose traced the hi eroglyph of the ka.

"Hormin's skin was always shining," Ahmose said. "As if he were a sack into which someone had poured oil that leaked out. He had a habit of digging his smallest finger in his ear when he talked, and he didn't bathe enough. For these faults alone I would have dispatched the man. Here, boy, don't go away. I'll tell you what you need to know. His younger son, Djaper, works as his apprentice. Quick as a leopard is that one, and has the tongue of a courtier. Though where he got it, considering his sire, I don't know."

"Where is the son?"

Ahmose picked up a sycamore leaf from the ground and crumpled it between his fingers. "Sent word he'd be late this morning. He didn't say why, but after the Anubis priest came, I understood. As for the rest who worked with Hormin, there's one man who fought with him all the time. Came to blows, they did. His name is Bakwerner, and he's in charge of the scribes of the fields of the Lord of the Two Lands. Take my advice, lad, you don't want to know any more about Hormin than you already do."

"Master, I'm going to find this criminal. Was Hormin here all day yesterday?"

"A waste of your time." Ahmose glanced at Meren's shuttered features. "You always were tenacious, like a crocodile. Yesterday? I sent Hormin on an errand to the temple of Amun, more to get rid of him for a while than for any real need. And later someone told me he had to go to the village of the tomb makers to hunt that concubine. Stupid man. Concubines cost, and they make trouble."

Meren was standing beside Ahmose with his thumbs stuck in his belt. "The village of the tomb makers." He hoped his voice was steady. It wouldn't do to reveal his apprehension at the master's words. "I'll find out what he did while he was away. Thank you, master."

"It's nothing, boy. You're going to have a time sorting out Hormin's enemies. Pharaoh's enemies now. I understand you must hunt them, or spar with the Hittite ambassador. This other is unimportant."

"Murder is never unimportant."

Ahmose snorted, — and Meren gave up justifying him self to his former teacher. Even the squabbles of three daughters never troubled his ka as did this man who refused to see that he was no longer a youth to be chastised and guided. From Ahmose he had learned the art of writing, of manipulation of numbers. It was from his old tutor that he caught the obsession with the writings of the ancestors, and it was Ahmose's fault that Meren quoted texts as a judge spouts law.

"Sit down, boy, and I'll tell you more of Hormin."

Sighing, Meren gave up the idea of trying to get Ahmose to stop calling him "boy," and sat down as he was ordered.

The office of records and tithes was in a separate build ing not far from the vizier's domain. In front of it was a survey team consisting of scribes, inspectors, measurers, and their boy assistants. It was near the season called Harvest, and Pharaoh's scribes scoured the land assessing taxes.

Meren stepped out of the sun and into the cool shade of the porch that surrounded the records office. On the floor sat five boys grinding pigment, mixing ink, and smoothing the surface of fresh papyrus sheets. Until Meren appeared, they had been laughing and joking among themselves. As Meren walked by, grinding stones rubbed faster, smoothing stones pressed harder. His assistants stopped at the door.

Inside, Meren came upon an unusual scene. In the middle of a room lined with shelves from floor to roof clustered a group of men. Each held a pottery cup, and one of them was pouring from a wine jar. Meren stopped inside the door and listened to the man pouring the wine.

"I know we all prayed to the good god Amun for deliverance, but who among us has had his supplication answered so quickly?"

"Do you think master Ahmose will take Djaper as his assistant now?" another man asked. "We've all seen how much he favors him."

A third laughed and nearly spilled his wine. "The only reason Djaper wasn't favored before was because the master would have had to elevate Hormin. Watch yourself, Bakwerner, Djaper is free of the carrion that was tied to his ankle."

"You're a pig, Montu," said the wine pourer. He looked up from his task, saw Meren, and shut his mouth. The others joined him in staring. At once they all splintered in different directions and left the wine pourer to face Meren. Setting the jar on the floor, the man approached, bowed, and muttered a greeting that acknowledged Meren by name.

"I would see the man called Bakwerner," Meren said.

"I am he, my lord."

Meren strolled over to a shelf, and Bakwerner was forced to follow him. Taking out a papyrus, Meren unrolled it and studied the cursive hieroglyphs that covered the paper.

"Why would you want the scribe Hormin dead?" Meren prided himself on his skill at flushing waterfowl from a marsh.

Bakwerner turned vermilion and stuttered. He found his tongue. "My lord, it is a lie someone has told you. I never did him harm. We fought, but Hormin fought with many. We've all heard someone killed him, but none of us has left the records all morning. I'm innocent-we're all innocent."

"You tried to strangle Hormin three days ago," Meren said. He rolled the papyrus roll shut and studied Bakwerner. "I am not a judge or a governor. I don't listen to petitions or excuses. Loosen your tongue unless you'd rather sing to the accompaniment of the whip or the stave."

Bakwerner fell to his knees and babbled. "Have pity, excellent lord. I am innocent. It's true that Hormin and I exchanged blows, but you don't know what he did. Three days ago I put the records for the taxes of the city of Busiris on a shelf belonging to Hormin. It was a mistake, my lord, an innocent mistake. But Hormin threw the records away in my absence. The whole of the taxes of Busiris, Gone. He said he didn't look at them, that they didn't belong in his shelf, so he threw them away."