Year of the Hyenas (20 page)

Now, he hoped,
his
duty to his aunt was discharged and life could resume its normal
thrust. He and his team would go back to work in Pharaoh’s tomb, and
all would be well. But the sudden stab in his heart reminded him that
Hetephras’s terrible death had robbed the village of any peace it once
had—of any it could have again.

In the
flickering
torchlight he instinctively reached for the jar of wine beside him and
lifted it to his lips. A thick glob of bitter dregs filled his mouth.
Gagging, he spat the mess back into the jar.

“Rami!” he
called out
automatically. “Bring more wine from the village!”

There was no
reply,
and Paneb dimly remembered that he had sent the lad home hours before.
Paneb still had a long night ahead in the tomb, intending to apply
fresh color to his uncle Djutmose’s coffin and to the smaller coffin
that was beside it, both of which had dulled over the years. He did not
sleep well in his own house any longer, and actually preferred the
comfort of his aunt and uncle’s tomb during the long nights.

Well, he
thought, wine
would comfort him still further. Resolutely, he climbed the steep
stairway up the shaft and went through the tomb’s courtyard, past its
ancient acacia tree, and out the cemetery gates. In his haste he did
not notice he was being observed.

Semerket
peered at the
departing figure from behind the wall of an adjoining tomb. He intended
to search Hetephras’s vault; Paneb’s refusal to be questioned—or even
to emerge from his aunt’s tomb for days at a time—made Semerket itch
with suspicion. Once the foreman was out of sight, he quickly went
through the pylons and into the tomb. Though he carried an unlighted
torch for himself, he was surprised to see that Paneb had left a torch
still burning in the crypt below.

“Hello… ?” he
called
into the shaft. Perhaps someone was there.

When no one
answered,
he quickly eased himself into the shaft and climbed down its stairway.
A few steps and he found himself in the new room carved by Paneb and
his team. Its walls were painted a vivid ochre, lending the light its
special golden hue. As Semerket’s dazzled eyes adjusted to the
torchlight, the art on the walls revealed itself to him. He laid down
his torch and flint and simply gazed.

Though all her
life
Hetephras had lived in a desert, the tombmakers had ensured that her
afterlife was verdant with painted sycamores and acacias, palm trees
laden with dates, and swirling grape vines that grew up the lintels.
Semerket felt himself transported into another world—which, he knew,
was the exact purpose of the tomb.

That was how
Paneb
found Semerket—staring raptly at the paintings. The foreman’s deep
voice made him jump. “Well, now,” Paneb said. He loomed large in the
doorway, preventing any escape, and his lips were thin with suspicion.
“People who go where they’re not wanted usually end up badly.” He took
a step forward.

Semerket
forced
himself to smile. “Yes,” he said, “it seems all my life I’ve gone into
places I shouldn’t—a hazard of my profession, I suppose.”

“I don’t much
care for
your ‘profession,’ ” Paneb said. He slowly put the jar of wine down on
the tiles, and his hands curled into fists.

“I apologize,”
said
Semerket hastily. “The moment I realized that you weren’t here, I
should have left. It’s just…” His words trailed off.

Paneb cocked
his head.

Semerket
indicated the
tomb with a gesture. “It’s just so beautiful.” His tongue froze in his
head again. He resorted to ineffective gestures to convey how impressed
he was.

When Paneb
spoke, he
slurred his words. “Do you think she’d be pleased?”

Semerket
nodded. The
foreman, he realized, was drunk.

Paneb’s
expression
softened a bit. He poured a bowl of wine and held it out for Semerket.

Semerket shook
his
head ruefully. “I mean no offense, but I can’t drink it.”

“You have a
problem
with wine? So did I, once.”

“How did you
deal with
it?”

“I decided
that
everyone else had the problem—and that I was fine.”

Semerket
laughed out
loud, caught by surprise. He was joined by Paneb’s low rumbling
chortle. Then they both stopped, surprised, and regarded one another
with renewed suspicion.

“Was it over a
woman?”
Paneb asked, drinking. “It usually is.”

“Yes,”
Semerket
answered reluctantly. “My wife.”

“What
happened? Did
she die?”

“No. She left
me
because I couldn’t father the children she wanted.”

Paneb looked
at him
sympathetically. “I began to drink when my wife left me, too. I was
bedding too many other women, she said. I warned her at the time we
broke the jar together, though, when you marry a snake you can’t expect
it to fly.”

“At least not
for very
long,” Semerket answered.

This time it
was Paneb
who laughed out loud. He took another drink of the wine and threw his
arm about Semerket’s shoulders. “Since you’re so appreciative of our
work here, let me show you something else you might like.”

Paneb dragged
Semerket
to the far wall. A host of small figures were painted in several rows
across the surface, each only a few inches high.

“Look
closely,” Paneb
commanded.

Staring at the
tiny
people, Semerket gave a start when he realized that they were actually
cunning portraits of the villagers themselves. In the wall’s corner,
the loveliest figure of all, a woman plucked at her harp.

“Why, it’s
Hunro!”
Semerket said, impressed. “Exactly like her.”

“Well,”
slurred Paneb
with a dirty wink, “not like we men know her, eh? We have a legend
around here, says a mosquito bit Hunro on her private parts—and she
developed a permanent itch for it.” His raunchy laugh boomed drunkenly
in the chamber, but the foreman stopped when he saw Semerket’s sober
expression. “What’s this? Sulks?”

“She’s a
married
woman, Paneb.”

The foreman
poured
himself more wine. “Don’t tell me you haven’t lain with her yet?”

“No.”

“Then you’re
the only
man around here who hasn’t!” He peered closer at Semerket, swaying
slightly. “Say—you really don’t care for this sort of talk, do you?”

“I thought we
could
speak of who you thought might have killed your aunt. I’ve asked
everyone else in the village for their opinion, but not yours.”

Paneb stared
at him.

“It was a
foreigner,”
he said thickly, after a moment, trying to focus his eyes, “or a
vagabond.”

“Paneb—”

“A
foreigner
or a
vagabond
!” The foreman stood
over Semerket, his wide mouth clenched in rage. Semerket knew Paneb was
mere moments away from either attacking him again or passing out. But
the foreman’s expression abruptly changed with a new thought, and he
leaned eagerly toward Semerket. “You know, if you like the work in
here, let me show you some real craftsmanship!”

Paneb pulled
Semerket
up the well, out of the cemetery, and into the village, dragging him to
his house. The first thing Paneb did was to pour himself more wine from
a jar he kept in his larder. Then, putting a finger to his lips and
winking, he beckoned Semerket to his sleeping area. Digging into a
chest, he brought out an alabaster canopic jar from beneath some skins.

“Look at
this!” Paneb
handed the object reverently to Semerket, who took it in his hands. His
host staggered about looking for a candle, for by now the sun was
behind the mountain and the house was dark. He lit the wick inexpertly,
his thick fingers clumsy with the flint. The fire caught and the candle
flared.

The jar was
topped
with a bust of Imsety, the human-headed son of the god Horus who
protected the deceased’s preserved liver. Once again Semerket was
astonished by the grace and delicacy of the workmanship. The glyphs
were of inset gold and the god Imsety himself wore a cascading wig of
carved lapis.

“My
grandfather made
it,” belched Paneb. “He was famous in his time for these jars. Every
pharaoh, every noble, the queens—they all had to have a set for their
tomb.”

“It’s
beautiful,”
Semerket said. “Did your grandfather leave it to you?”

The question
was an
innocent one, but Semerket instantly sensed that Paneb had tensed.
“Amen-meses,” Paneb answered, after a moment’s hesitation.

“What?”

“A trader—a
merchant—from Kush. Amen-meses brought it to me. He used to sell my
grandfather’s work down south—thought I might like to have it.”

“He must be
very old
by now, to have known your grandfather.” Semerket held the jar into the
candlelight, but was actually staring at Paneb.

“Yes…” Paneb
was
weaving slightly, his eyes blanketed by the dark. Suddenly his entire
face changed to distress. “I’m sorry… I…” he said uncertainly, lurching
for the kitchen.

When Paneb had
vomited
out all the wine he had drunk, he sank to the floor, trying to curl up
on the tiles. Semerket knew from his own sordid experience how
uncomfortable the foreman would feel in the morning. Dragging him into
the sleeping room, he laid Paneb down on his pallet, covered him with
skins, and placed a jug of water beside him.

It was only
then that
he truly looked about the foreman’s house, at the dirty plates left
unwashed by the hearth, the overturned furniture and broken crockery.
It exactly resembled his own home after Naia had left him. Semerket
looked down at the snoring foreman, and felt a twinge of pity for the
man. He was suffering badly, that much was obvious. It was not pleasant
to see a person in so much pain.

But such
unpleasantness did not prevent Semerket from seizing the opportunity
that had been presented to him. Taking the candle into the kitchen, he
retrieved the canopic jar from the niche into which Paneb had thrust
it. He held the jar in the wavering candlelight, seeing again its
perfect line and sinuous detail.

Turning it
slowly in
his hand, he noticed a small cartouche-shaped indentation that was
incised into the alabaster, near its bottom. He knew that the sacred
oval shape was used only to display the names of pharaohs, queens, and
gods. He could not help but suspect that the complete cartouche,
perhaps made of gold or silver like the rest of the inlaid glyphs, had
been deliberately scratched from the piece so that its owner’s name
could not be read.

Semerket
looked about
the kitchen and found a fairly clean plate. Holding it above the
candle’s wick, he waited until a smear of carbon had collected, then
wiped his finger across the soot. Holding the jar close to the candle
so he could see, Semerket rubbed his finger lightly across the
cartouche. Though faint, the glyphs once inlaid there were revealed.

Semerket
mouthed their
syllables slowly. “Twos-re.” He had never heard the name before, but
another sweep of his blackened finger across the cartouche enabled
another glyph to appear. “Divine woman,” it read, the symbol for a
female pharaoh.

This was no
leftover
relic from Paneb’s ancestor, Semerket realized, nor had it been made
for sale to the Kushites. It was a queen’s jar, and a ruling queen at
that. Still, he had to make sure what he suspected was true.

Semerket
strained,
pulling at the lapis head. It refused to budge, so tightly were the two
pieces wedged together. Inhaling silently, holding his breath, Semerket
again pulled at the head, twisting it this time in his hand. The wig of
carved blue stone cracked in half.

Semerket swore
viciously to himself. The head came free, leaving a chunk of the stone
wig attached to the rim of the jar. The room was instantly redolent of
bay leaves and pine resin, so strong that he worried the aroma would
wake Paneb. But the foreman’s heavy breathing still rumbled from the
sleeping room.

He set
Imsety’s
damaged head down on the floor. Tilting the jar toward the candle, he
peered within. As he had suspected, a resin-soaked, linen-wrapped
object was inside, resembling a piece of rotting wood— Queen Twos-re’s
preserved liver.

From his
experiences
in the House of Purification, he knew that after the liver had been
dried in natron and wrapped in linen strips, it was then placed in such
a jar. A viscous resin mixture of juniper and bay had then been poured,
boiling, over it. Semerket inserted a finger into the jar and felt the
glass-like surface of the hardened resin. Judging from how strong its
harsh medicinal scent was, he surmised that whoever Twos-re had been,
she had not been dead for very long. Strange that he had never heard
her name mentioned, nor seen any inscription or stele bearing her
figure or cartouche.

The jar was
stolen
from a tomb, that much was clear to him. But who was the thief—Paneb
himself or the merchant Amen-meses? Either way, Paneb had to have known
that the jar was stolen. This in itself was a crime, though many
nobles—even pharaohs themselves— collected the grave-goods of ancient
dynasties as a pastime.

Semerket bent
to
retrieve the cracked Imsety head. Holding the candle so that the wax
dripped onto its shattered edge, he glued the two pieces securely
together. It would hold, but not forever. He was so intent on his task
that when he felt the rush of softness about his legs, he gasped aloud,
leaping and almost dropping the jar altogether. Sukis was looking up at
him, obviously disgusted by his gutless reaction. She mewed in derision.

Fearful that
Paneb
would hear her, he put his finger to his lips, futilely attempting to
hush her cries. Moving back slowly through the room in which Paneb
slept, he returned the jar to the chest from which Paneb had taken it.
He hoped that in the morning Paneb would believe that he himself had
put it there, and that he would not look too closely for cracks or
smudges of lampblack.