Sebamose sat on the hard ground, drinking his cheap, bitter wine, drowning amidst the unusually deafening noise of the tavern he was in. Officially, it was known as the Delighted Ibis. The majority of the tavern’s clientele, however, could not even read the “lowerglyphs” on the sign (at least that’s what the scribes called the written vulgar tongue), they gave it the nickname of the Clueless Stork. It was then that the name stuck…much to the barkeep’s chagrin.
It wasn’t even the tavern’s usual brand of banter that consisted of one part humorous comradery, one part problem sharing, and nine parts bragging about some overrated feat of stupidity that nine times out of ten, resulted in a barfight.
No, this had a more desperate flavor to it. There was always some fool in the background, crying and screaming, along with some pent up anger that complimented the crying as well as a beer would with saltwater. On a regular day, Sebamose would seek the tavern’s relatively dark mudbrick walls to escape the relatively darker spot in his soul; it was his refuge from desperation, boredom, and relatively stupid ideas of complex moral quandaries. Today, however, it was filled with the desperation of musty-smelling people, who were only really there for the free food and alcohol. The tavern would have kicked these vagrants outside, but it was government mandated that they were allowed to stay, eat and even sleep there.
Sebamose came to drink, and in the barkeep’s opinion was a welcome break from the refuse that was graciously allowed in by royal decree. While the scribes promised that the tavern’s keeper, Masud, would be compensated by the government in gold, silver, and copper scarabs equal in value to what he lost, Sebamose could always pay up front. Masud never really understood exactly how Sebamose always seemed to have the means to waste so much money on wine and beer, both cheap and otherwise. Masud dared not find out, however; his intuition told him that it was probably more trouble than it was worth. Sebamose wasn’t really one to talk much, speaking only to conduct business and to ask questions about the tavern’s more unusual happenings, like today.
After half an hour of this mad noise, Sebamose had enough. He took up his few things as well as his closely watched bag of copper scarab coins. He figured that if he was going to not enjoy his wine in peace, then he was going to at least go do his “job.”
So, he went outside the flat-roofed tavern, and looked back at it one last time, only to be taken by surprise at the appearance of a papyrus scroll nailed over the carved label on the tavern’s wall. “I’ve never noticed this before,” Sebamose thought, “my obviously hawk-like senses are getting rusty it seems.” He then approached the document on the wall, and tried to see what it was about.
He didn’t bother with the upper portion of the document. That was written really for formalities as it was in Hieroglyphs, the language of the nobles and above. To Sebamose, however, he found it to be needlessly elaborate, as his mind found the characters to be more like illustrations to some story written by a lunatic under the heavy influence of alcohol. If he was going to figure out anything, it was going to be through the “lowerglyph” portion of the document. Unfortunately, he was about as literate as a child three weeks in school, only able to understand what he managed to pick up on over the years and using his sleuthing skills to figure out the rest. It reminded him of one job where he managed, with a change of clothes and a little kohl over the eyes, to convince a quarry a dozen miles south that he was a scribe. With his newfound authority, he managed to get his client at the time a few limestone blocks. Good times.
Piecing together the words he knew, Sebamose concluded that it was a royal decree to all inns, taverns, and commoners that they take in refugees so as to keep the roads clear. Refusal meant pain of death.
Sebamose’s first reaction was that of disgust. For a god-king that was supposedly the heart of Akhat-Geb, the Pharaoh sure seemed heartless to his subjects in his own capital city. His second reaction was that of befuddlement. Even when trying to do seemingly reasonable things like keeping the streets clear, the officials always did it in the most inefficient ways. Part of it was trying to get thousands of people to move like a single body. Part of it was that there was always some stupid ceremony tied to it. If the Pharaoh was about to relieve himself, his priests would probably say a prayer and maybe even offer sacrifice in thanks to his majesty’s great donation.
Sebamose carefully put the note back where it was hanging. Even though he never really liked any sort of authority, he knew that if he was going to mess with scribes, priests, or even anyone remotely connected to royalty, that he better damn well make it count. Tearing down scribal orders was one of many infractions that could land the fool who did it straight to prison. Besides, he didn’t feel like landing his sanctuary of ale, wine, and comradery in hot water, even if it was being a trifle bit useless right now. Even if he wanted to, there were too many witnesses, and he wasn’t what you would call a common looking man; being the son of slaves, kidnapped from a forgotten land up north, his skin was lighter than most of the people around him; it was possible that his skin rivalled that of the royalty. For this reason, and that of his “job,” he was known as the “Ivory Finder.”
Sebamose left the tight atmosphere of the tavern to be met with the open air of the city itself. Though it was far more appealing to be able to move around within the streets, despite their noise and crowded nature, the taint of a musty odor was starting to permeate everywhere; strangely enough, it was even stronger outside. All of it was coming from the seemingly hundreds of refugees, all carrying very little in possessions, as the weight of broken hope, wounded pride, and ruined dreams were enough; this was made even worse by their immediate cumulative arrival, as if the city gates were deeply imbibing them all like some kind of desperate drunk. However, it wasn’t like La-Karem smelled good in general; even before all the recent ballyhoo, people didn’t generally prioritize the way they smelled, nor of the smell of where they lived. Sure the priests and the nobility would notice, but the peasants didn’t care; they were way too busy farming for food, and in the process left the more hygienic side of life by the wayside.
Sebamose took a few turns around a progressively nicer set of neighborhoods; he was given a small piece of papyrus that contained a map to where he would meet a contact. He was approached two weeks prior by a well-dressed servant during one of his outings at the tavern. Sebamose was greeted by a tap on the back of his left shoulder by the aging man was greeted by a permanently scowled face on a head that seemed more square than a cube of stone. All this, along with a stare that could not only see into your soul, but potentially rip it apart into pieces if the man willed, left Sebamose rather unsettled; this was something, considering that some of his previous jobs included robbing the tombs of quite a few nobles. Those were high factor jobs in which he was well paid for, as being caught by the constabulary in such deeds was something that would have led him to an early grave. That hardly fazed him. He was good at what he did.
“My master hears that, of all the finders-for-hire, you are the best,” the man croaked through a raspy voice, and worn-down, crooked teeth. Despite being a little uneasy, Sebamose managed to hold himself together and nonchalantly replied, “Depends. Have I found something that he was too sentimental over?”
“While my master has caught your ilk before on his property, he has yet to catch one as lightly skinned as you.”
“Then either I’ve yet to pay him an impromptu visit, or I’m the best damn finder, that you’ve ever seen.”
The glare and the insincere nod from the servant were shot back at Sebamose as a massive rejection of his fake projection of confidence; it was if he could sense what Sebamose was feeling. All of this was brought to a head by the servant’s unenthusiastic reply of, “Right then.”
The servant then pulled out the piece of papyrus that Sebamose would soon use. “One week after the harvest festival, you are to find my master at the place illustrated here. You will come here at high noon. Alone.” The servant said in an inhuman stone-faced seriousness. His emphasis on that last word sent an unnerving chill down Sebamose’s spine. And with that, the servant left.
A small part of Sebamose had developed a deep thirst of curiosity that demanded an answer exactly which noble would have the masochism necessary to hire such a thoroughly unpleasant figure. His mind desperately wanted to tail the servant in order to answer the question. His legs however, would not budge as they agreed with his spine that he dealt with this unnatural fellow for far too long. “Ah well,” he thought, “I’ll find out soon enough.” He then waved for another cheap beer.
Twenty days later (and ten days after the harvest festival), and Sebamose was following that small piece of papyrus to a richer district. “At least I’ll take a break from that strong mildew-ridden smell,” Sebamose thought. Unfortunately, one annoyance was fading away, only to be met with another. Due to the terraced nature of La-Karem being built upon a hill, that meant that a good, long stretch of an uphill climb, with stairs covering half of the distance; even Sebamose’s rather fit body could not keep up without a little bit of struggle. This only served to increase his dislike of nobles. Not only did they have to act like they were better than peasants like their life depended on it, but they had to make sure that their living quarters were towering over the commoners, as if to say, “I am closer to god than you, impudent whelps!” The only reason why he ever dealt with the likes of such fools is because they would gladly pay for his services, especially when they needed someone to do something terrible to another noble. Sebamose figured that the noble he was soon to meet would want him to do just that.
He followed the illustration to find that his destination was a luxury market square. While noisy, it at least seemed liberated from the breath-sucking, heavily packed nature of the common market squares. In addition, it seemed to lack the rather recent musty smell that the lower districts seemed to be bathed in; in fact, it seemed to lack the rather dump-like smell that dominated the lower streets prior to the arrival of the refugees. If a man could tolerate the pompous nature of the nobility and scribes that lived here, he could get used to the relatively paradise-like nature of the place.
Even in the richer part of the city, Sebamose couldn’t find his intended contact. It was easy to tell who the nobility was; their lack of outdoor exposure left their skin relatively light compared to the servants they had, and they always had at least one servant nearby; if not for carrying his noble’s new purchases, then it was either for guarding the noble in question, or simply there so that the noble could show off his financial prowess. Even the mundane act of shopping carried a competitive edge, in which the winning noble could have the right to display his blatant narcissism in front of his embittered peers.
Sebamose decided to sit nearby the obelisk that sat in the center of the market square, dominating the area as if to declare itself the master of its domain. The baking heat of the sun along with the nicer than usual atmosphere, almost demanded Sebamose to doze off, much against his will. “He’d better damn well show up,” Sebamose thought, “I’ve little time to waste, and I don’t want some constable to try some poppycock attempt to arrest me for vagrancy!”
Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder which jolted him awake, leaving him quite startled. He turned to face a typical servant, clad in a basic linen tunic, with a piece of wood with the noble’s symbol engraved upon it, hung off of his neck like a collar on a guard dog. “The Ivory Finder, I presume?” the man asked.
“Did one of your fellow servants carry this?” Sebamose replied, presenting the small piece of papyrus.
“I don’t remember seeing that,” the servant said, his eyebrow cocked, “but I do recognize the writing to be from a scribe that works for my master. Come, he wishes to speak with you.”
The servant began to walk away and motioned him to follow. Sebamose got up and briefly jogged to catch up. “I thought I was supposed to find your master here,” Sebamose spoke, “What changed his mind?”
“Simple. He wants to be really careful of prying eyes, Finder,” the servant replied, a small smirk creeping up his lips, “You didn’t think that he was going to share his agenda out in the open, did you?”
“Most nobles aren’t that concerned about a poor man like me talking to a rich man like your master,” Sebamose countered, “Most nobles are busy slaking what recent thirst their avarice demands to be filled.”
“Perhaps for a typical case of yours. But my master needs something a little more…unconventional. You’ll see,” the servant said, as they continued down an alley at the back of many a merchant’s home, like they were wide, square pillars, supporting an imaginary temple. Along the way, they walked underneath a high aqueduct that towered over some of the merchant homes. Sebamose remembered the first time he arrived in La-Karem. Being born from a relatively smaller village in the northern section, known as lower Akhat-Geb, it amazed him that people could engineer such a marvel that could ferry water to farther parts of the city, and thus make the metropolis what it was. Now, however, Sebamose simply saw the aqueduct as nothing more than a stupid reminder that the nobility thought that they were so much better than the common people that they didn’t even bother to wander down to the slums just to get water.
Eventually, they came to a more open part of the city, where a man could see much of the mud brick houses that adorned the rim of the shores of the river Djet, from its source in the west, to its split to a north and east branch. There was much superstition from where the river came from. West was where the light of the sun goes to die, only to be reborn from the east. One rumor had it that the river Djet was the spilled blood of many thousands of dead suns, but it was a rumor that not even the priests supported, and even actively discouraged as heresy.
Finally, he was taken to the noble’s villa. There, he was greeted with limestone walls that shined as if to try and make the sun jealous of their own brightness; and like their owner, these residential walls came with a certain feel of pompous control, as if they were to cry, “Only the worthy may enter. All others are beneath contempt.”
The servant opened a wooden door on the side of the villa, and allowed Sebamose in. Looking around, he saw a beautiful arrangement of flowers and shrubbery, all surrounding the main event: a simple, granite carved fountain. The only time Sebamose had been in a villa before was when he was breaking into it. There was no way that he was going to take in the scenery, when all that concerned him was to get in, steal whatever he was hired to steal, and get out, preferably undetected. Here, however, he was actually invited in such a place, and as such, allowed his eyes to take in the peaceful serenity that the garden evoked. He could easily imagine that if given the opportunity, he could sleep and dream peaceful dreams; the residential walls on the inside complimented the gardens and the fountain in establishing a sense of safety and even romance, if one had a lover beside him here. “How saccharine,” Sebamose thought.
“Are you coming, Finder?” the servant inquired of Sebamose. It appeared that Sebamose had lost himself in the scenery, and had to tear himself away from the beauty of the gardens. Shortly, he followed the servant inside.
Through a narrow set of limestone walls, which even being narrow were generous in width compared to mudbrick peasant houses. Sebamose was led to a room reserved primarily for those living in luxury: a room made exclusively for dining. It was complete with a waist-high table, and was accompanied by six odd looking knee-high mini tables with wicker walls jutting out one direction. Sebamose had seen these kinds of tables before. He was told that the nobility called them “chairs.” Opposite of where Sebamose entered, sitting on one of these chairs, was a fair-skinned man, wearing a colorful over-garment on top of a plain linen tunic. He was adorned in a gold necklace, and various bands around the arms that contained all manners of jewels and precious stones like lapis lazuli, emerald, and rubies. On his face was a circlet on a linen cowl, a smile, and a sea-shell shaped earring on his left ear, and only his left ear. It was obvious who the man was; he was the owner of the villa.
“Come in and take a seat,” the Noble at the table said as he motioned with his right hand, “Enjoy the meal I have prepared for you.”
Sebamose approached the table with a degree of suspicion; ever since he escaped the slavery of his childhood, he found that life was very rarely merciful to the likes of him. Sitting down on the chair felt stiff, like it demanded perfect posture just for the mere act of eating. “If this is something that nobles need to do every day,” Sebamose thought, “then it’s no wonder they’re unpleasant.” Outwardly, he simply said, “And to whom do I owe the extravagant pleasure of this cornucopia of food?”
The noble’s smile grew wider as he replied, “I am known as Nomarch Donkor Abuaton II, ruler of a nome that stretches in a three league radius around the glorious city of La-Karem. You may simply call me Nomarch.”
Sebamose took a pomegranate from the table, and leaned back on his chair; kicking up his legs onto the table, he opened up the pomegranate and started to eat the bittersweet seeds that hid within. “So, Nomey,” Sebamose began, ignoring the disapproving glare of the noble before him, “What kind of service can the Ivory Finder do for you?”
The Nomarch tried to recompose himself, and replied, “Right, then. The job I have in mind is highly important, as it will involve infiltrating pharaoh’s palace.”
Sebamose spit out the latest batch of seeds he engulfed. “The big guy!? They feed people to the crocodiles, just for spitting in his general direction” he said, lowering his legs and leaning forward, “You better damn well make it worth poking the god-lion.”
“Rest assured, you will be compensated handsomely,” The Nomarch replied, “All I need is a certain amulet from the royal temple of Udjat. If, and only if, you bring this amulet to me, I can personally guarantee you at least four thousand gold scarab coins.”
“If I am going through with this job, Nomey, I’m going to need half of that in advance!” Sebamose cried, still unsure of what he was putting himself through.
“I can offer only a quarter in advance, nothing more,” replied the Nomarch, his nerves clearly being tested.
“I guess I can live with that,” Sebamose finally replied, after mulling over the final offer present. One thousand gold scarabs is nothing to sneer at. The cheapest of beers was a mere copper scarab; nine-hundred and sixty of these coins were equal to one gold scarab. With that in mind, he could easily find an early retirement outside of La-Karem. He never really had a strong attachment to anyone here, and besides, he never really liked the city much anyway. He only really stayed here, because he could find work that suited his skills quite comfortably.
“Excellent,” the Nomarch replied, “I’ll have one of my scribes give an illustration of the amulet in question.” The Nomarch then daintily put a date in his mouth, slowly chewing and savoring it. Sebamose, on the contrary, was devouring everything on sight, not caring if some of the foodstuffs ended up on his already dirty tunic. “I assume…” Sebamose said between bites, “that I’ll get…a layout of the…palace as well?”
“Naturally, as you need to know where the temple lies.”
“Good, I’ll also need to know how many guard there are, and what their marching patterns are like.”
The Nomarch then cocked an eyebrow, “Why in all of Akhat-Geb would you need that?”
“Naturally, if I am to break in—”
“Not so, dear Finder. We won’t be breaking in!”
“I can’t really just ask to borrow this, you know.”
“I know that!” the Nomarch snapped, “What I mean is that we are going in, just not purely under the cover of darkness.”
“Let me guess…some crazy disguise.”
“Give the Ivory Finder a prize! In three days, I will go before the pharaonic court, to give my report to him and his priests. Here is what will happen…”
To be Continued in Chapter 2 here