The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle Page 3

  Lord Nebamun's smile grew almost impish. Khonsu suspected that he was imagining the headlong flight of the guards scrambling over each other in their mad haste to leave.

  “I see,” the Second Prophet said again. “Did this evil ghost make any other appearances while you were there? Before the cave-in at the quarry?”

  “Noises and rustling... White shapes against the sky. And when the quarry went we heard a crack and a roar...”

  Nebamun exchanged glances with the Master Quarryman again. “Was there anything else?” he asked at last.

  “N–no, Your Grace,” Hutor replied.

  Nebamun smiled and directed a look at the Governor.

  Count Tothotep raised his hands. “Continue as Your Grace wishes”

  “Thank you, Count,” Lord Nebamun said. He turned toward Hutor. “You have had a frightening time of it,” he said. “I suggest that you finish the wine, then take some food. I imagine you haven't had much to eat over the past several days.”

  Hutor bowed to the ground and then moved to the side. At a nod from the Governor, one of the servants brought him a platter of food.

  A thoughtful silence passed before Lord Nebamun spoke again. “My orders come from His Majesty and my High Priest,” he said. “The quarry must be inspected. Indeed, that is why I have been sent, and why I have brought the finest stone-worker in Lower Egypt with me, but I won't force anyone into a time of terror against his will. My Lord Governor, will you pass the word that I must go on, but those who fear this venture need not accompany me?”

  Khonsu stared at the man. He was either incredibly generous and understanding—or incredibly cunning. The mission was to a wrecked city. What, aside from possible salvage, could be so vital that His Grace would be willing to risk wholesale defection? Or was he, perhaps, an understanding leader who could bend to accommodate his command's problems? Whatever the reason, Lord Nebamun would certainly go with a full escort, for what man would publicly brand himself a coward?

  Lord Nebamun spoke again. “I should say that deserted cities, which are often full of plunder for anyone with the time and the patience to do a thorough job, are the haunt of owls and hyenas,” he said. “And folk living near such cities are notable for their imaginations.

  “I fear neither owls nor hyenas, and I have no patience with provincials with vivid imaginations who enjoy telling horrific stories to frighten travelers. And now, with Your Excellency's good will, I ask that we continue with this festive meal. Those who wish to come with me will inform me of their decisions tomorrow.”

  IV

  None of the Second Prophet's entourage elected to return to Memphis. Khonsu's own force, refusing to be outdone by a pack of northerners with more refinement than intelligence, announced that it would follow its commander wherever he chose to lead. Khonsu was amused to see men from both groups contributing to a brisk trade with the various sellers of amulets and charms outside the city's temples. To cap matters, Hutor had come to him in the morning to say he had maybe let his own imagination get out of hand. He had gone on to say that he would be willing to go back to Akhet-Aten in His Grace's train.

  ** ** **

  Twilight softened the outlines of the villa's formal gardens; torches, set in sconces along the portico, cast a golden glow over the small pond and sparked tiny flashes of fire from the jewels adorning the men present.

  Perineb, the priest Kheti had first mistaken for Lord Nebamun the day before, was a compactly built man in his early forties with a twinkle underlying the gravity of his demeanor. He was the fifth-ranking priest in the cult of Ptah. Khonsu had been told that he would perform all the sacerdotal functions for the expedition.

  Nebamun had gathered all the senior members of the group. Sennefer, the Master Physician of the Temple of Ptah, was leaning against a pillar with his arms folded, looking around at the others present with lively eyes. Nehesi, the Quarry Master, had lifted a cup of cooled beer to his lips and was sipping quietly. His broad-cheeked, impassive dark face, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Nubian blood, verified his name, which meant 'Nubian'.

  The Chief Sculptor was standing beside him. He had drained his cup. The man's red-veined, fleshy cheeks indicated a fondness for drink. He was eyeing the jug on the nearby table with speculative eyes.

  Paser, the Commander of the Memphis Temple Guard, was filling his cup from the pitcher. Khonsu had recognized him as the man who had exchanged glares with Nebamun's driver the night before. As Khonsu watched, Paser saw the sculptor's expression, grinned, and refilled the sculptor's cup before directing a narrow stare at the younger man.

  Lord Nebamun was gazing at the lintel of the gateway opening from the garden. He was holding a cup of wine, but he had not sipped from it yet.

  “His Majesty wishes to dedicate a pylon at Memphis to commemorate his victories,” he said. “He plans to reface the one built by Akhenaten with new stone, which will then be carved in a suitable manner.”

  A murmur of surprise rose and faded. Lord Nebamun had apparently judged it best to speak openly only when he reached Khemnu. Aside from Perineb, it appeared that the others of his party had been as much in the dark as Khonsu was.

  Nebamun continued, “We are looking into reopening the quarries at Akhet-Aten because the ones at Tura are occupied, and so we are looking to Akhet-Aten to supply our needs, if possible. We are commanded to proceed to Akhet-Aten with all haste, to be joined by a detachment from the Army of Upper Egypt. Our immediate task will be to look over the quarries, see if they are viable, and do what is necessary to bring them to full operation. The army, which is traveling overland from Thebes at this moment under the command of Seti, son of Ramesses, will meet us in due time.”

  “General Seti?” Khonsu repeated. “I have read reports of several campaigns he led against the Libyans.”

  “He is son of the Commander in Chief of the Armies,” Nebamun said. “If I judge it possible to work the quarries, his force will provide the laborers. Until I make that determination, I will set them to work as I see fit.”

  When there were no further questions or comments he nodded toward Khonsu. “Commander Khonsu here will be responsible for the army that will accompany us, and he will be supervising supplies, as well. I have reviewed the provisions that he has made for our security and our feeding, and they are excellent. We depart tomorrow, Paser for Memphis, the rest of us for Akhet-Aten.”

  The murmur rose again, but there was no surprise in it until Paser said clearly, “I don't see why I must return to Memphis when everyone else is traveling on to Akhet-Aten!”

  “We have discussed this before,” Nebamun said. “You are serving as my escort only as far as Khemnu.”

  “I would better serve your interests at Akhet-Aten!” Paser stated.

  Ptahemhat the young driver leaned forward with a muffled exclamation. The sudden, hard pressure of Nebamun's hand on his shoulder brought him to a halt.

  Lord Nebamun smiled and said, “Paser, do you really want to go to a place that has been described as a 'hell hole' and a 'charmless backwater'?”

  “I am the ranking officer at the temple of Ptah!”

  “Which is why you should get back there!” Ptahemhat exclaimed.

  “The company has been set,” Lord Nebamun said.

  “That makes no difference to me!” Paser said.

  Nebamun was frowning. The expression slowly relaxed. “So be it,” he said. “Come with us.”

  “It's an insult!” Ptahemhat protested.

  Lord Nebamun's quiet voice held an edge of iron. “You will do as you are ordered! We sail in the morning.”

  V Khemnu

  Khonsu's daughter, Sherit, insisted on leaving their house and her sickbed to accompany her father to the docks and see him off. She stepped into his chariot beside him, slipped her thin little hand in his and smiled up at him as they drove to the quays.

  They paused before the great temple of Thoth to watch as a group of traveling players performed the mystery play of Osiris. The s
quare was circled with onlookers while the actors portraying Horus and Set spoke their lines.

  “What are they doing?” Sherit whispered.

  “They're performing a play,” Khonsu answered. “See their false heads, the falcon head of Horus, there, is made of papier mâché. Look: they have their swords out now!”

  The crowd shouted with alarm as Horus' stroke went wide.

  Sherit's hand tightened in his. “Papa, I'm afraid,” she said.

  “Don't be frightened,” Khonsu whispered back. “It's Horus fighting Set, who murdered his father.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “Don't you remember, Sweetheart? How they told the tale?”

  She shook her head.

  “Listen,” Khonsu said. “Set lured his brother to death through treachery. He seized Egypt for his own, driving Horus into exile and decreeing his death. Horus swore an oath to avenge his father's murder, whatever the cost.”

  Sherit looked up at him. “He murdered his brother?”

  “It is an old story. His son, Horus, set out to avenge the murder. He cried out to Ptah, Strengthen my arm, that I may deal justice in your lands! Ptah heard his prayers. When the time was ripe, Horus took his sword and pursued Set across the land. At last Horus fought Set blade to blade and struck him down, avenging the murder of Osiris his father.”

  Sherit watched the players as he spoke, her eyes widening as the play-fight unfolded. “Then Horus won?”

  Khonsu watched the figures circling, their faces hidden behind the molded masks, acting out the story that hid an eternal truth. The murderer could not escape retribution. Soon or late, in this world or another, the Avenger of Blood would exact the price. “Yes, Sweetheart,” he said with absolute certainty. “Horus always wins.”

  The roar of the crowd cut off his voice as Set was beaten to his knees as though to underscore his words. Khonsu smiled at Sherit and then nodded to his driver to continue to the docks.

  They arrived as Prince of the Winds, securely lashed to her moorings, gangplanks slanting fore and aft from deck to dock, was taking on her final provisions. A human river of sun-browned backs, bent under loads of varying sizes, flowed along the quayside and into the hold of the ship. The thudding of a deep drum sounded out a rhythm which was echoed by the thump of feet against the wooden decks. The ship's bow, painted the bright green of the fertile fields beyond the river, arched upward; its painted eyes seemed to gaze down upon them with astonishment.

  A bevy of smaller ships were also loading on supplies and men. As Khonsu and Sherit watched, a team of restive horses was coaxed aboard and tethered by the mast.

  Sherit held Khonsu's hand as she leaned forward. “Papa, look! There's the Nomarch! He waved to me!”

  Lord Nebamun, in full priestly regalia, was speaking quietly with Count Tothotep. His entourage surrounded him in a tight knot. The Second Prophet looked up in time to see Sherit waving. He smiled and gave her a formal bow, hands to heart, that brought all eyes toward Sherit and Khonsu.

  “Who's that?” Sherit asked, wide-eyed with surprise as she hesitantly returned the bow with a shy smile.

  “That is Lord Nebamun,” Khonsu said. “He is the second highest priest of Ptah, and he'll be leading this expedition.”

  “He looks like—like Horus!” Sherit breathed.

  Nebamun had touched the Governor's shoulder and spoke quietly with him. He was frowning slightly, but the frown changed to a warm smile; he bowed once more, to Sherit's delight.

  Khonsu looked down at Sherit. “It's time to go, Sweetheart,” he said, lifting her in a sudden, anguished hug. “Give me a kiss! Promise to obey your aunt.”

  She clung to him for a moment. “Will it take you long to get there?” she asked.

  “Just till tomorrow,” he replied. “I'll be thinking of you all that time. I wish I didn't have to leave!”

  “I'll be fine, Papa,” she said. “You wait and see. Aunt Hatshepset says she'll fatten me up so you won't recognize me!”

  “Don't overdo it,” he said, his voice catching on a laugh. “You're just now getting better, and I don't want you to be sick like that ever again! What would I do without you?”

  “You'll always have me,” she said with a child's heartbreaking confidence.

  “I'll miss you,” he said, releasing her. “Be careful, and grow strong!” He kissed her again, set her down, and stepped down from his chariot. “Take her to my sister Hatshepset's house,” he told his driver. “And thank you. Be good, Sweetheart, for me.”

  He watched them drive away, then squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, mounted the gangplank, and presented his credentials.

  Lord Nebamun was speaking urgently with the Nomarch, who seemed a little vexed. A scribe was making notations on a whitewashed board as they spoke; time enough for Khonsu to make his way to them. He closed his eyes and fought down his worry at leaving Sherit. She had been so ill…

  The Nomarch had arrived at the head of the gangplank. He bowed to Lord Nebamun and descended to the quay.

  Khonsu lowered his head, returned the Nomarch's smile, and looked around at the others on the ship as the lines securing the boom were cast loose at a word from the Captain.

  The sail unfurled, rippling in the wind. It steadied, caught, and billowed out as the sailors made the boom fast. Slowly, but with increasing force, the ship moved away from the dock. Twin banks of oars emerged, dipped twice, and then withdrew as the sails filled with the wind, swelled and grew taut, drawing Prince of the Winds southward.

  Khonsu turned and went to the stern railing to gaze upon the receding roofline of Khemnu, trying to pinpoint his sister's house and wondering if Sherit would be unhappy without him.

  Lord Nebamun was there before him, his eyes fixed on the docks of Khemnu and the figure of the Nomarch. His expression was as unreadable as a block of flint, except for the line of his mouth. As Khonsu watched, he bit his lower lip and turned toward Khonsu.

  “A beautiful day to begin a journey, Your Grace,” said Khonsu with a bow as the Second Prophet saw him.

  Nebamun looked back toward Khemnu one last time, then turned to face Khonsu. “Yes,” he said. “A magnificent beginning.” He nodded and turned to watch the banks of the river slip past. He was silent for so long that Khonsu, thinking himself dismissed, started to turn away.

  Nebamun's voice moved smoothly into his thoughts. “We were interrupted by the arrival of your man, Hutor, my first night in Khemnu,” he said. “I believe you were saying that you are familiar with Akhet-Aten.”

  Khonsu turned and went back to the railing. “I've led desert patrols for the Nomarch, Your Grace,” he said. “You could say that I'm familiar with the surroundings.”

  “But not the city itself?”

  “Not inside the city limits, Your Grace,” Khonsu replied. “I have patrolled the borders.”

  Nebamun directed a lance-straight gaze at Khonsu. “Were you worried by ghosts, perhaps?”

  “I have heard the tales,” Khonsu replied. “I have always found them suspect. The city was abandoned and posed no threat to security, and I had better things to do than wander through ruined houses and temples.”

  To Khonsu's surprise, Nebamun began to laugh. “A sensible man!” he said. “I can see why Count Tothotep values you so highly.”

  “Your Grace is too kind,” Khonsu said. He added, “My men, those who I thought had no problems dealing with ghosts, went to Akhet-Aten to prepare suitable quarters for you and your entourage. I overestimated their immunity.”

  “It is understandable,” Nebamun said with a smile. “And what can you tell me of the quarries?”

  “They are close to the city,” Khonsu said. “I went inside them once. There are quarters nearby, built during the reign of Amenhotep III, that should house the workers without any problem.”

  Lord Nebamun nodded. He looked as though he were about to ask another question when a strident voice rose above the other sounds on the ship and made him t
urn and frown toward the bow.

  “I tell you, Paser, assigning the guard is my concern!”

  Nebamun's brows drove together in a frown as Paser and Ptahemhat approached him. “That's enough!” Nebamun snapped. “You are here unofficially, Paser. You will be reporting to Commander Khonsu from this moment. Ptahu, go back to your duties!”

  Nebamun raised his hand as Paser opened his mouth. “I said that is enough! Both of you go about your business. We should be halfway to Akhet-Aten before nightfall, and I want no bickering between now and then!”

  ** ** **

  “I apologize for assigning Paser to your group without consulting you first, Commander,” Lord Nebamun said later as they stood together at the port railing and watched the sunlit cliffs slip past them. They were sailing slowly south before the light wind. The rest of the group were enjoying a siesta on the deck, but the Second Prophet, like Khonsu, was a shore watcher.

  “There's no harm done, Your Grace,” Khonsu replied. “I can always use a good officer, and if it eases a bad situation, then I can't object.”

  “I hope you are correct,” Nebamun said. “I wanted to avoid this.”

  Khonsu asked the question that had been troubling him since he had first seen Paser and Ptahemhat. “Why do they hate each other?”

  “Jealousy, I suppose,” Nebamun said. “Ptahemhat was fostered in my household after his father's death twelve years ago. He wanted to go into the guard, and so I gave him an appointment. After that, his advancement depended on his own merit, which, if you'll take my word for it, is considerable. Paser's jealousy started about the time Ptahemhat was named second in command. But there's more...” He fell silent.

  When he did not speak, Khonsu said, “Your Grace?”

  Nebamun sighed and rested his weight on his folded arms. “You'll be commanding Paser so you may as well know,” he said. “There has been talk among the guards that Paser is no longer the man he once was. It is true enough: he's a healthy, strong man in his forties. But he doesn't understand that what a man can do at forty is far different from what he can do at twenty. He tires more easily, he grows fatter more quickly. But there are compensations: an older man's greater experience far outweighs a youth's raw, untrained strength. But Paser does not seem to understand any of this.”