Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

The sun was rising high above the walls of the temple now, glinting off the gold-and-silver inlay of the god's gate. The light sent jabs of pain spiking behind Kysen's eyes. He squinted and stepped into the shadow cast by the statue of pharaoh. Workmen crawled over the great stone figure, climbing the scaffolding, carrying baskets of tools and waste flakes.

Kysen stopped beside the base and studied the ground. "You let them move the body? Where is it, and where was it found? Gods, they've tramped all around here."

Ebana rounded on him.

"Don't address me as if I were a fruit seller, boy. Surely Meren has beaten some civilized behavior into you by now."

A white-hot poker drilled its way through Kysen's skull, and he felt his cheeks burn. Ebana always managed to make him feel like fish dung, but he'd learned a little from watching his father.

He inclined his head at Ebana and said, "I was abrupt. However, I doubt anyone could rid me of my plain blood, adopted cousin." He paused to lift his head and stare dagger-straight at Ebana. "It sometimes makes me-unpredictable-to those whose raising was softer."

"By Amun's crown, your blood may be plain, but you've acquired the clever tongue and slippery wit of your second father."

Ebana turned to point at a dusty spot near the base of a ladder that scaled the statue. "He fell from the top of the scaffolding. There."

Kysen knelt and brushed dust and flakes of stone away to reveal dried blood, a few dark hairs embedded in it. Standing, he looked across the flagstones, then up the ladder, then back at the blood. All at once, he looked around, scooped up a heavy mallet from a basket of tools, and began scaling the ladder.

"What are you doing?"

He ignored the impatience in Ebana's voice. Reaching the top of the ladder, he mounted the platform. All work on the statue stopped. Two artisans on the scaffold stared at him as he turned to look down at Ebana. More stoneworkers, apprentices, and laborers stared up at him from the ground.

"You'd better stand back, O Servant of the God."

He didn't wait. Stretching out, he dropped the mallet. The tool plummeted to land almost directly below the ladder.

Kysen stared at it, then muttered. "A man's weight. He trips, falls, tries to grab the ladder and misses. Perhaps he hit the rungs going down. Still…"

Turning, he found the artisans still staring at him. The most senior of the two was eyeing him keenly.

"You found the priest?" Kysen asked.

"Aye, lord. I'm Seneb. We found him on his back. His head was split."

"Did you see any marks on him?" Kysen asked. "Any bruises, cuts?"

"Lord, if you mean had he been attacked, no. There were no marks of violence."

"And when did you arrive?"

"Just at dawn, lord."

As they spoke, Kysen sensed the suppressed excitement of the stonemason and his assistant. They hadn't known Unas long, for he'd only recently been assigned to the task of supervising the statue. There were so many priests of Amun, and the royal craftsmen had been at the quarry with the statue until it came to Thebes. As the questioning continued, Seneb became less reserved.

"We saw no one around the body, so I went to get a priest. I'll make a wager that the porter was asleep. We talked to the night sentries before they went home. They came to look at the body, you see. They said they must have been walking the circuit on the far side of the temple, or they would have seen Unas arrive."

Kysen nodded. He went back to the top of the ladder and stood gazing over the edge of the scaffolding. The stonemason joined him.

"Seneb," Kysen said. "No doubt you've seen a lot of rock fall in your time."

"Aye, lord."

"If a stone weighing about as much as a man were to fall from this scaffold, where would it land?"

"Almost directly below, lord. There."

Seneb pointed a cracked and dusty thumb at a spot near the foot of the ladder. Kysen glanced from the spot to the patch of blood.

"Not where the priest landed?"

'Too far away, lord, but a man is not a rock."

"But if he tried to grab the ladder?"

"Such a movement might keep him at the foot of the ladder, or thrust him away, to the place where the blood is."

"Ah."

Kysen tried to estimate the distance between the blood and the ladder-several arm-lengths at least.

"Um, lord"

"Yes."

"I've seen men fall from scaffolding. Their wits sometimes riot and they kick out, hit the ladder, and thrust themselves out even farther than this one did."

"My thanks, Seneb."

He lapsed into silence as a priest emerged from the crowds swelling in and out of the temple. This one, like Ebana, wore a wig over his shaven head and therefore must not be on sacred duty at the moment. He was dressed in cloud-white linen and gold. "That's the one who came when we found the body." Seneb was standing at his shoulder. They exchanged glances, and Kysen knew the man was waiting for encouragement.

"What did he say?"

"He didn't want me to report to the treasury. Said it was the concern of the temple, but this is the statue of the living god. I'm a royal craftsman. Pharaoh-may he have life, health, and strength-pharaoh has been generous to his stoneworkers. We couldn't allow such an evil to go by without reporting to our chief."

Now he understood. "Fear not. Your chief is pleased, as is his superior, and those at the palace who interest themselves in this matter. All will go well with you and your men, Seneb. You can work in peace without fear of the temple."

"Thank you, lord. May Ptah, god of artisans, protect you."

"And you," Kysen said as he climbed down the ladder, leaving a much-relieved stonemason atop the platform.

He joined Ebana and the new priest and was introduced. He'd already formed an impression of Qenamun from observing him from above. The man walked as if his joints were hot oil, smoothly, with a glide that surely would make no sound. Close up he seemed as slender as a walking staff. He had long, thin bones, almond-shaped eyes, and thin nostrils that quivered, thus completing his resemblance to a gazelle. Beside Ebana's dense muscularity, he appeared almost fragile.

"So the body was sent to his house," Qenamun was saying. "No doubt by now it has gone to the embalmers across the river. And of course we've given the sad news to his wife."

"Of course," said Kysen. "How quick and attentive of you."

Qenamun gave Kysen a chilly smile and bowed slightly. "All diligence is needful in the service of the good god. Have you any other questions?"

"What of the porter? Where is he?"

"The man was asleep at his post. He's been punished and has been set to hauling refuse. Laziness and negligence are an abomination to the god."

"I would like to question him myself."

"What foolishness," Ebana said. "The man knows nothing, and he's not here."

"I'll go to him."

"You will not!"

Kysen only lifted a brow, a gesture he'd acquired from his father.

Ebana scowled at him. "You're not dragging us down to the refuse pits. Qenamun will send him to your house around midday to await you."

Murmuring his assent, Qenamun executed a sinuous bow and left them. The sun had moved, causing the shadow of the statue to shift. Kysen moved with it and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"An imposing personage, Qenamun," he said.

Ebana said nothing.

"Are you going to tell me about him, adopted cousin, or shall I bribe servants and humble pure ones?"

Shrugging, Ebana said, "Qenamun is a lector priest."

"You don't like him." When this comment was met with further silence, Kysen sighed. "Ah, well. I was hoping to go home to a midday meal, but it seems I must enter the temple and ask questions until nightfall simply because you won't be agreeable."