Lynda Robinson: Murder at the God's Gate

Unas hesitated. It was dark now, but he could hear the familiar flapping of the banners atop the tall, electrum-tipped poles that stood in front of each side of the pylon gate. He peered among the countless votive statues, painted white, red, green, and blue, solid and replete with inscriptions, in the forecourt. They had multiplied over untold generations as Theban citizens in search of the god's favor placed them there.

His breathing shallow and quick, Unas walked between two flagpoles and crossed the god's avenue of sphinxes. He turned south, then sped away from the sacred precinct of Amun. When he was out of sight of the guards, he broke into a run.

He pattered past shrine after shrine, house after house, turning north onto a street of workshops and homes owned by metalworkers, amulet makers, and scribes. His own house's white facade and painted doorway had never seemed so welcoming. With one last glance over his shoulder, Unas ducked inside and slammed the door shut.

Immediately he began to shiver. With the back of his arm he wiped sweat from his brow and bare head. Something was pressing into his side. He glanced down to find his hand pushing the wicker box into his flesh. He lifted it and knew fear all over again.

What was he to do? He'd heard such evil, and he was only a pure one, not a lector priest or servant of the god. If he told someone, how could he be sure that the recipient of his confidence wasn't a part of the evil as well?

Unas gripped the box and crossed the reception room. On his way he caught his foot on Ipwet's loom. He yelped, stumbled, and rubbed his ankle with a free hand. Kicking a spindle whorl out of his way, he hurried to the common room behind the reception chamber. He paused to listen to the rhythmic grinding coming from the roof.

Ipwet was preparing dinner. The thought of food turned his stomach, and Unas dodged around the central column and through the doorway that led to their sleeping chamber. At last he could shove the box under his bed while he paced and thought.

He glanced at the household shrine to the god Bes. Not a powerful god when compared to Amun, the king of gods. No help there. He would be hunted like a wounded hyena. They would destroy him if they found out he knew.

Should he tell that charioteer? Not a fortnight ago the warrior and his master, the great Lord Meren, had come for some information about unguent. A strange request. And he'd been so frightened. Unas nearly ran into the wall opposite his bed as he remembered the visit of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.

The only reason he'd agreed to provide information was for the rewards. He had to flourish to please his wife. Ipwet was a young woman, much younger than he, who deserved a prosperous husband and fine possessions. If he could provide well, he might keep her affection, for women valued a man of accomplishment much more than a man who possessed merely youth. He turned and sat on the bed. Resting his forearms on his thighs, he hung his head over his knees and groaned.

He didn't want trouble. All he'd ever wanted was to be able to do his work well so that he could have a fine home and provide for the children he and Ipwet desired. So many other priests born to higher station grew fat on their privileges without having done anything to deserve them, while he worked long hours and made few mistakes. Others before him had risen through ability, so he still had hopes of greatness. Only now it seemed incongruous that he'd been so excited when his superior, Qenamun, had elevated him to chief of the pure ones of the treasury only last week.

Now his promising future was threatened. Especially if he told the Eyes of Pharaoh anything. No more advances, no prospect of lucrative assignments that brought a share in the income from the god's estates. Yet how could he not say anything?

What he needed was to know the will of Amun. There was every possibility that Amun had guided his steps tonight so that he could foil the evil. Or a demon could have influenced him to seek out the hearing of the sinful words. Which?

He hated dilemmas. He liked clarity and simplicity, like figuring the number of men required to drag an obelisk of a certain weight. Unas sank his head in his hands and moaned. He was a sparrow among vultures in this matter. They would pounce on him and snap his neck. He must give much thought to the choice of whether or not to speak and to whom. Haste could cost him his life.

Taking a deep breath, Unas rose and walked toward the threshold. Then he remembered the inscribed bowl. Veering around, he glowered at the box under his bed. It seemed to shriek danger in a high, raptorlike scream. He should destroy it. Someone could find it and accuse him of unnameable atrocities.

Unas snatched up the box and headed for the kitchen at the back of the house. Ipwet had come downstairs from the roof and was pressing out bread dough beside the dome-shaped oven. Faint wisps of smoke floated up through the vent hole in the roof. She glanced up and gave him a quick smile.

Her dark brown hair was tied back to keep it out of her way, and she wore her old gown, the one she used when doing heavy chores like grinding grain. He liked to watch her use the quern and grinding stone. Her arm muscles bunched as she shoved the stone back and forth, and her breasts bounced in time with her strokes.

"Guess what?" Ipwet said. "Papa brought a duck this afternoon." She breathed in. "Smell that, Unas. Is there nothing finer than roast duck?"

"Mm-hmm."

Unas removed the box lid.

"What is it?" Ipwet asked. She shaped a round loaf with her hands. "I hope it's dates."

He fished inside for the shards. One stuck his finger, but he managed to gather most of the pieces in one hand. Lifting them from the box, he walked to the oven and cast them into the fire. For good measure, he emptied the box at the mouth of the oven and brushed the smaller pieces toward the flames. Ipwet slapped his hands.

"What are you doing? You'll ruin my fire!"

Unas backed away as she shoved him. "I–I was trying to make it hotter."

"With broken pottery?" Ipwet knelt in front of the oven and peered inside. "If you've ruined my fire, you can just make another if you want any dinner." She straightened and shrugged. "It seems fine. Whatever made you do such a stupid thing? Oh, never mind. Go away, Unas. I hate it when you hover over me."

He craned his neck to see over her shoulder, but the shards had disappeared into the flames. His palms felt damp. As he left the kitchen he rubbed them against his kilt.

In the common room he went to a tall, narrow-necked jar in a stand, picked up a strainer, and poured beer into a cup. Gulping until he'd finished the drink, he poured another. Relief sprinkled over his body like one of those rare winter rainfalls. The bowl was destroyed, and he had nothing to fear. He was safe and could take his time in pondering what to do. Haste was an abomination. It led to mistakes; this time it could cost him his life.

Night shrouded the forecourt at the temple of Amun. The threshold of the double doors, where a porter should have stood, was empty. An owl circled overhead, then swooped and landed on the head of a votive statue of some long-dead nobleman. The man must have been wealthy, for the figure had at one time been painted and gilded. After a century, however, the figure had been shoved aside to make way for the offerings of a new age. The sheet gold had been surreptitiously removed, and now the owl picked at chips of paint to reveal fine black diorite stone.

A blur of white movement made the bird screech and launch itself into the air. A whisper of cloth as it moved against skin. The hush of a sigh. The statue seemed to give birth to a man who stepped away from its looming bulk.

Transparent pleated folds caught the gleam of moonlight. A bronze bracelet reflected moonbeams, as did a gold ring with a flat bezel bearing hieroglyphs of the owner's name. The man turned and watched the owl fly over the roofs of the shrines and buildings of the temple complex. Another, shorter man joined the first and spoke in an almost inaudible whisper.