‘No one saw you arrive?’ asked Huy.
‘They don’t know my face down here, or I’d have been mobbed. Everyone’s talking about the king’s death. I overheard more than one bargemaster say he wasn’t continuing on to the Northern Capital until he was sure who the next pharaoh was going to be.’
‘It won’t make any difference to them.’ it won’t make any difference to most of us; but we like to think it’s important that we know.’
Huy smiled. ‘Maybe we’re being optimistic to think that it won’t make any difference. Did you see the chariot?’
Nehesy glanced around quickly. ‘Yes. The guards weren't too happy about it at first, but as soon as I told them who I was, they let me in. Especially as I happened to take along a couple of antelope hides, which they were very happy to accept.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I needed to check the equipment – the sand shovel, what weapons were left – for my own report.’
‘And?’
Nehesy leant forward. He thrust his great head forward, placed his elbows on the table, and spread his hands wide. ‘In the confusion when we found the king and brought him back, I didn’t take in much detail, but I can tell you this now: the chariot is completely undamaged. There isn’t a dent on its shell. I don’t know if they’ve cleaned it – it doesn’t look like it because there’s still plenty of sand caught in the axle and around the wheel spokes – but there isn’t a trace of any blood, or hair, or skin. I saw the wound on the king’s skull. If he had struck it on the chariot there would be signs of where he got the blow.’
‘You’re sure it would have dented the shell?’
Nehesy spread his hands wider in impatience. ‘Look, those electrum chariots are feather light. The metal would bend if you blew on it. There is something else too.’
‘Yes?’
‘The harness has disappeared. All of it. Bridle, bit, reins, girth – all gone. The guards knew nothing of it, and it wasn’t returned to the stables.’
Huy paused for a moment, thinking. Then he said, ‘What will happen to the chariot?’
‘The story is that it will be buried with the king. The new officer in charge of the official inquiry has inspected it.’
Then there is nothing we can do,’ said Huy.
You can tell Ay what we’ve found out. What did the doctors say?’
Huy told him.
Then there is enough to go on. With that information, if Ay cannot block Horemheb…‘ Nehesy broke off in exasperation, as Huy continued to hesitate.
‘We can’t assume Horemheb is responsible for the king’s death,’ Huy said, finally. ‘He’s not the only one who stands likely to profit by it, and if he has no other virtue, he has shown himself to have patience.’
‘Consider this then,’ said Nehesy. ‘The man in charge of the inquiry is Kenamun. He is the new chief of police.’
Huy drew in his breath. He thought of the unsettled score he had with the former priest-administrator. In those days Kenamun had been Horemheb’s man; there was no reason to think that things had changed.
He did not notice a boatman at the next table rise and leave, his plate of food untouched.
SIX
As soon as she awoke she knew something was wrong. At first she lay still, trying to guess by the quality of the light what time it was. From the cold and the stillness, she knew that morning was still far away. Then she wondered what it was that had awakened her so suddenly, so absolutely. All that was left in her heart was the memory of a noise, or of the ceasing of a noise.
She was not frightened. She lay and looked at the window, framing white moonlight. Some spilled into the room, and she waited until her eyes grew into it enough for her to see her way without a lamp. When she was satisfied, she threw off the sheet and stood up, naked in the cool darkness, enjoying the sensation for a moment before she directed her attention to the silence around her; the noise of the sheet and the creaking of the leather bedstraps had been an intrusion, and now it had returned, more intense than before.
Suddenly she realised what had awakened her: the coughing had stopped. She pulled on her long robe and left the room, walking briskly along the verandah, open on one side to the sky, to her father’s room.
The house servant whose bed was placed outside it was already awake, and unable to decide what to do. Pushing him aside, Senseneb grabbed the handle of the door and opened it.
Horaha lay on his back, his neck reposing on a bone headrest, the oil lamp beside him still burning. His arms were splayed, his hands open, palms upwards. His head had fallen back and his lips and eyes were open. His body was still. The only movement was from the minute bubbles that frothed and broke at the corners of his mouth.
‘Get Hapu,’ she told the servant at her elbow, but even as he ran to fetch the chief steward she knew that her father was dead. She had probably known it the moment she had entered the room and seen him. A large yellow moth which had been fluttering around the lamp now left its rotating course and settled near Horaha’s eye. For a second Senseneb found herself hoping to see the cheek flinch, but the moth might as well have landed on a statue.
She was astounded at how calm she felt. She crossed the room to the body and checked pulse and breath as he had taught her, automatically, seeking refuge from her feelings, keeping them at bay through the actions she took. Soon enough the thoughts would pour in. She was an orphan and a divorcee, with no children and no other relatives. Though she knew enough to practise medicine, it would be hard here in the Southern Capital. She would have to go away, but where?
She pushed the door of her heart closed. For the moment it would be enough to find out what had happened.
There was a sound of running feet, bare feet on the wooden floor of the verandah. She turned to see Hapu, closely followed by the frightened house servant.
‘What has happened?’ the steward asked, scared himself.
‘Horaha is dead. We must make his Khat comfortable,’ she said. Her voice was firm. The commands that came from it calmed the men. They came into the room, glad to escape from the tumbling rush of their own feelings in activity.
‘Do what is necessary,’ she continued. ‘We must send for the embalmer at dawn. But I want to speak to him before he touches the body.’
‘Yes, Lady.’
She noticed the title they had instantly accorded her. Up until now, she had been Returned Daughter of the House. If was three years since her husband had divorced her on grounds of barrenness, and sent her back to her father. Her husband, a kind man, had even paid her the agreed divorce fund which had been settled at their marriage, and had not told her parents that he had other grounds for divorce: her adultery. Her mouth felt acid at the recollection. Seven wasted years. Why should she think of them now? Perhaps because she was alone again.
When they had done, removing the headrest and replacing it with a large pad of linen, then resting the arms on more linen pads, they went to fetch the linen sheet soaked in water in which they would cover the corpse to keep the insects away. Alone with her father, she leant close to his face and dabbed away the foam at his lips. It smelt rank.
She drew back, stood up, thinking. It was two days since that thickset investigator from Ay’s household had been here. He had tried hard to play the little official, but his eyes were too intelligent and his mouth too humorous to deceive her. They had fenced with each other, but there had been something in the air between them which had made them sense each other as friends. Who was he really? She had little doubt that she would see him again, but how soon? It seemed that she needed him urgently, and she did not know where to find him.
In the stillness, she sent a thought to him, concentrating hard. If it reached him, he would come.
Two days. Who had betrayed her father? Perhaps Merinakhte. But her refusal to sleep with him was too small a reason for such vengeance. There was no doubt in her mind that Horaha had been poisoned.