Murder in Mennefer, page 3
“Things are as they are,” Odji said with a shrug.
“Perhaps. Yet I wish I could let Ahmose know about the lessons I’ve been giving you, and how hard you practice your reading and writing.”
Several months earlier the slave had come to Imhotep begging to be taught his letters so that he could do the same for his sister, Noha, who was also a slave, in Chancellor Pepi’s household. Then brother and sister would be able to keep in touch by sending messages to each other.
Odji blanched. “Please do not tell him! He would beat me for seeking to rise above my station.”
“Fear not.” Imhotep sighed. We all live by the gods’ whims.
Ahmose himself should know better, Imhotep thought as he watched Odji trot off. From a lowly porter, Ahmose, who had been orphaned at an early age, had been made an apprentice and given more responsibility, all of which he handled well. Gradually he made himself indispensable to Kaneferw and had been appointed First Apprentice, a privileged place in the atelier. Though Ahmose was unfailingly polite and gracious to Kaneferw’s family, his condescending treatment of Odji made Imhotep uncomfortable.
After Odji departed, Imhotep returned to his mother’s room and sat beside her bed with Sebhot. She pressed his hand between hers. “You have made the arrangements with…with Merisu?”
He nodded.
She closed her eyes. “Then we have twenty-eight days until the funeral. Wabet,” she said to her slave, hovering nearby, “you must prepare the roast duck he loves, and salted beef and dried lamb. Fill a chest.” Kherry opened her eyes. “No! Two. Have them made by Harkuf the carpenter. Imhotep, you will make ready your father’s tomb.”
“Of course, Mother.”
“Sebhot, when the time comes, order the finest white bread to fill your father’s storage chamber. Use the bakers in the Street of Persimmons.”
“I will, Mother.”
“And the funeral feast. I shall hire two dozen mourners, invite a hundred guests. We’ll need a banquet. I want the best for your father, the best—”
“But—” Sebhot frowned.
“What is it?”
“How are we… I mean, what about Father’s business? How are we to pay for all this?”
“My sensible son.” She smoothed his hair. “Ahmose will see to the shop until Imhotep settles your father’s affairs. Your father provided for us.” She closed her eyes. “Yes, we’ll need funds. Please take care of it, Imhotep.”
He rose to do her bidding, but she opened her eyes and put a hand on his arm. “Not now, my son. Tomorrow is soon enough.” Kherry sighed. “Stay near while I rest, both of you.”
“Yes. Rest, Mother.” Imhotep kissed her cheek, as did Sebhot. They sat silently beside the bed until her breathing became deep and regular. Then they rose and left the room. Imhotep drew a curtain across the entry.
They went to the table and sat.
“She is so pale.” Sebhot choked back a sob. “Tep, I miss him.”
Imhotep nodded, tears in his eyes. “As do I. We will miss him more in the days to come. But we must carry on. It is our duty. We are his sons. In the morning you and I will go to the atelier and sort things out.” Imhotep tapped his brother’s chest. “I will need that clever heart of yours.”
Sebhot finally smiled.
Imhotep returned the smile. “Then I will see to Father’s tomb.”
“Poor Father… He had no idea he’d need it this soon.”
“None of us did.”
Wabet set a plate of olives, onions, and bread in front of Imhotep, along with a jug of beer. “May the gods protect him,” the girl murmured.
“Thank you, Wabet.” He had not eaten since the early morning but had no desire for food. He lifted the jug.
Wabet tapped the plate. “You should eat. Both of you.”
“For my part, I am not hungry.” Sebhot sighed and rose to his feet. “I’m going to lie down too, up on the roof. It’s cooler there.”
“I’ll stay with your mother.” Wabet tapped Imhotep’s plate again. “Try to eat something, eh? Then you too must rest.”
“And you, Wabet. We will all need our strength.” Imhotep drank the beer. His thoughts tumbled this way and that. He couldn’t hold on to them.
Presently he looked up with a start. It had grown dark while he wrestled with his emotions. He poured oil into a shallow pottery lamp, lit it, and found a length of linen to wrap up his uneaten food. Because it was a hot night, he decided to sleep up on the house’s flat roof. Fetching his linen bedding from his room, he took the lamp, went outside and climbed the stairs to the roof. Sebhot was asleep, snoring softly.
Imhotep arranged his bedding, then doused the lamp. Lying down, hands clasped behind his head, he stared at the endlessly twinkling stars that formed the body of beautiful Nut, goddess of the night sky and protector of the dead.
She would watch over his father as he made his way through Duat, the underworld, to the Hall of Two Truths where Anubis would judge whether he had lived a virtuous life and Ma’at would weigh his honor. Imhotep had no doubt that the gods would rule favorably, that his father would be sent on to the blessed realm of Osiris in the Beautiful West.
O my Mother Nut, goddess of night, stretch Yourself over my father that he may be placed among the imperishable stars which are in You, and that he may live on.
Feeling a little better, he rolled over to one side and settled himself for sleep. Unbidden, an image of Thuya’s boat came to his heart. He could even see the sunlight sparkling on the waves.
Or perhaps it was merely the stars.…
When he awoke, for a brief, strange moment he thought he was still seeing sunlight on the gentle swells of the river. But it was the eastern sky growing bright as Lord Re’s chariot approached, bringing dawn to the Two Lands. He sat cross-legged on his bed. Thuya must be awake as well, breaking his fast; only he is watching the sights along the banks of the Nile unscroll. What buildings and trees is he seeing? Or animals? Are they the same as here or not? How long will it take the ship to go beyond the Two Lands? And what—
A gentle snore interrupted his reverie. Sebhot lay nearby on his own pallet. Imhotep stood. Sebhot’s limbs sprawled in every direction as was usual for him in slumber. Let him sleep a while longer.
Halfway down the outside stairs, Imhotep inhaled the delicious aroma of baking bread. That, and the gentle murmur of women’s voices, told him that his mother and Wabet were preparing the day’s loaves.
Imhotep quietly entered the house to offer his morning prayers at the small altar before heading to the rough stone stairway leading to the basement.
The low ceiling, formed by the flooring overhead, forced Imhotep to stoop. He grimaced, remembering how he and his father had labored, facing the cramped earthen walls of the cellar with stones. Most people wouldn’t have bothered, would have been content merely with smoothing the walls, but Kaneferw insisted on using stone.
It will make this space cooler and more secure, he’d said.
Cooler for the amphorae of stored grain and cooking oil, safer for the carved cedar box his father had hidden. The chest held the atelier’s profits, as well as the gold bracelets and faience necklaces his parents wore for festivals or on the rare occasions when they went to the palace. The next “occasion” will be Father’s funeral. Alone in the basement, Imhotep made no attempt to stifle his sobs. He wept as he would not before his mother and brother, and, he believed, as he never would again.
After, he wiped his face with the hem of his tunic. Behind the third vat from the stairs, Father had told him. Imhotep sweated and strained to budge the heavy stone amphora. He would not, would not, ask for help. He…could…do…this. At last, he wrested it out of the way. Sweaty, smeared with dirt, he crouched down and reached into the dark recess, his fingers serving as his eyes. Something brushed against his palm. A snake! As he reared back he smelled sandalwood. He blew out a breath. Just a frond to keep out the dank. Scorpions as well as snakes liked to hide in cellars. He stood too quickly and banged his head against the ceiling. Stars swirled around him. He felt a trickle of blood on his bare scalp and thought of his father’s head wound.
If I am to take my father’s place, I must be fearless.
He groped around behind the amphora until his fingers found the chest. Seizing it with a firm grasp, he carried the cedar box over to the stairs, where the light was marginally better. Imhotep ran his fingers over the lid, wiping dust from the image of Osiris his father had carved into the wood. Carefully, he lifted the lid. Inside, his parents’ wedding necklaces nested together, their bracelets circling one another. But everything else was gone. The spices, the silver… Not even a grain of gold remained.
4
Imhotep raced up the stairs. He shook his brother’s shoulder. “Seb! Sebhot, wake up!”
Sebhot surfaced from sleep, as always, with agonizing slowness. Imhotep ground his teeth but would say no more until the lazy turtle opened his eyes.
When he did, they instantly went wide. “Ai! Your head—it’s bleeding. What in the name of—”
Imhotep clamped a hand over Seb’s mouth. In a hurried whisper, he explained his discovery.
Sebhot’s reaction was not what he expected. Instead of being shocked or dismayed, Sebhot merely levered himself up on his elbows and sighed. He glanced sheepishly at Imhotep, then looked away.
“Seb? What’s the matter with you? I just told you, all of Father’s wealth has vanished. Everything except their wedding jewelry. We have been robbed!”
“No, Tep; we haven’t been robbed.”
Bewildered, Imhotep sat back on his haunches. “What are you talking about?”
“Father had no wealth, Tep; not really.”
“I…don’t understand.”
Sebhot sighed again and sat up on his bed roll. “Father—” he said, then broke off. He licked his lips and started again. “Father was not a poor man.”
“No, of course not, we live well.”
“Yes. But we could have been living better. The atelier has a good reputation, and Father’s work was never less than outstanding.”
Imhotep sighed. “I know all of this, Seb.”
“He hired the best people, bought the best tools, used the finest materials in his projects.” He raised his eyebrows at Imhotep.
“Yes, yes, of course. What of it?”
“Well, that sort of quality costs money. What Father did…well, he put almost everything he earned right back into the business. He said that he was putting some aside, in the basement, in the cedar box. But…”
“But…he didn’t.” He sighed again. “He just took out what we needed to live on, and to maintain appearances?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that’s true.”
“And how is it that you know all this?”
“Father told me. I’m sorry, Tep,” Sebhot said hastily as Imhotep bridled. “I’m sorry, but he had more faith in my business sense than yours. He made me swear on the blood of Isis that I would tell no one.”
“Ai-yi-yi-yi. Not even Mother knows this?”
Sebhot merely shook his head.
“Ai-yi-yi. Seb, we have to tell her now.”
“I know, I know. I was putting it off, telling her and you.”
Imhotep growled out a few pungent curses. “We will speak more of this later. Right now I must go look for work if we are to survive as a family.”
“Very well.” Sebhot went downstairs to get some breakfast. Imhotep followed him but detoured to the small courtyard where the family performed their ablutions. There on a trestle table were the scrapers and the jugs of scented oil used for washing.
Imhotep stripped and wiped oil on himself, then removed it and the dirt with his scraper. He felt his scalp for blood. Just a trickle. From his collection of remedies, always kept handy in several small jars, he selected a bit of moss and pressed it on the cut, then rubbed willow paste into the wound to seal it. Around his waist he wrapped the new linen kilt his mother had made, fastening it with a belt of double-sewn linen.
Standing before the polished copper mirror on the wall, Imhotep rimmed his eyes with kohl and painted his brows black. He had his mother’s soft gaze and slim form, but his father’s large skull and prominent nose. His mouth, however, was entirely his own. “That means he will speak for himself,” his mother had predicted. But what Imhotep had to say, his father rarely wished to hear. “Leave the stars and the spells to the priests,” Kaneferw had growled when Imhotep came to him to discuss his desire to learn new ways of healing in the lands to the south. “Charms will not protect a man from Lord Re’s fire or the sandstorms that blow from the Red Lands. No, a man needs shelter and a fine resting place. I will not demand you work as an architect, Imhotep; however, neither will I subsidize your travels beyond this season.”
But now, thanks to Kaneferw’s mishandling of the family finances, they were without funds. Not a grain of gold left for us. He groaned softly. Would that Father had purchased some cows or wheat fields that I could sell. Chancellor Pepi would help me secure a fair price. He chewed his lip. No, not yet. First things first. I want to examine the atelier’s records. If Father returned money to the business, Seb and I ought to be able to find out how much he put in, and when. I want to get an idea of how often he did that.
He found Sebhot in the kitchen, gobbling the bread and figs Wabet had set out for them. Imhotep’s stomach roiled. He had no appetite. “Finish up, Seb.” He lowered his voice. “I would know more of what Father told you, and what he did with the profits. We must sort through the ledgers. Perhaps we can find out where the money did go.”
Mouth full, Sebhot nodded and licked the residue from his fingers. Before they left, Imhotep carried a bowl of goat’s milk into the courtyard for Momo, who shot out from the shadows before it reached the ground and began eagerly lapping.
Despite Sebhot’s protests, Imhotep kept up a brisk pace to the workshop, a small building located halfway between their home and the huge temple of Ptah in the middle of Mennefer. By the time they reached the studio, Sebhot was winded. Imhotep, nervous and fidgety, felt as if he himself could walk, nay run, twice as far, just to delay entering.
Marked by a copper handle in the shape of an obelisk, the workshop door opened onto a large room. An enormous drawing table stood in the middle of the chamber. Knotted measuring ropes and rulers hung on either side of the entrance to the library, which housed the shop’s architectural scrolls and business records. Imhotep inhaled the familiar scent of ink and papyri, a small comfort for his father’s absence. He stiffened his spine and led the way inside. But when he turned around, he found Sebhot standing frozen in the doorway, finger pressed to his lips. Imhotep followed his brother’s gaze to the shadow crossing the threshold to the library.
Imhotep flung out his arm in front of Sebhot and tried to keep the tremor from his voice. “Who’s there?”
Ahmose bustled into view, stylus in hand, his left arm still in a sling. “Ah! I did not expect you this early in the day.”
“Nor we, you.” Imhotep brushed past the master apprentice. An oil lamp rested on the library table. Imhotep touched the ceramic base; it was still warm, most of the oil inside used up.
“I was here before first light to make ready the ledgers, young sirs.”
And, indeed, the scrolls were neatly laid out, with carved stones at their edges to keep them flat. “You risked the evil night spirits on our behalf?”
Ahmose flushed. “For your father’s sake I would ease your way.”
“It’s fortunate that you did not injure your writing hand,” Imhotep said.
“Yes, I was lucky in that regard.”
“Have you not broken your fast, then?” Sebhot said. “Shall I fetch you some honey cake?”
“Gods, Seb, is food all you think about?” Imhotep glared at his brother, who glared back, blushing.
“Nay, but many thanks.” Ahmose stifled a smile. “The ledgers are up to date, including the most recent entry for the wages due on…” He cleared his throat. “The last day.”
Sebhot leaned over the scroll, took up a stylus, and moistened an ink cake. He began to tick off the entries as he squinted down the columns of figures. Sebhot, Imhotep knew, would diligently chew on the numbers until his eyes failed.
Imhotep beckoned the master apprentice into the workroom. “Ahmose, Father’s business is profitable?”
The assistant cleared his throat. “Compared to other builders, yes. But expenses have risen of late, the cost of materials and labor and transport…and, of course, taxes have not gone down. They never do,” he said with a sad smile.
The current projects were as always laid out on the drawing table. Imhotep saw just two: the royal summerhouse at Fayum and Lord Horemheb’s tomb. The designs for the tomb were grand, with three underground rooms—one of them a lavatory, just in case the spirits felt moved—and a special niche for small models of Horemheb’s sailing vessels. Boats had been his passion in life.
Imhotep nodded in approval. By Thoth, such a commission will provide months, maybe years of provisions. The dark spirit troubling his heart began to release its hold. But first, they must complete the royal summer house in the Fayum. He studied the plans, placing his thumb over the wall that killed his father as if he could erase it. “The wall, Ahmose,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat, “what do you think it will take to rebuild?”
The assistant’s brow knitted. “I spoke with Kagemni about this before I left to come to Mennefer with your father’s body. To rebuild we will need a large order to the stonecutter and another month of wages. All that, I fear, will devour the remainder of the commission paid by King Sanakhe.”
“Even so, we can then commence work on Horemheb’s tomb.”
Ahmose looked stricken. “I did not wish to trouble you further at this time. But since your father will not be here to oversee the construction, Lord Horemheb has said he may decide to withdraw his commission.”
