City of the Dead

voracious, more refined. They became aware of details: beads of sweat on a shoulder to lick off; pungent droplets in the tousle of hair between her legs and his. Their hands clasped each other like mouths which could not be satisfied; they kissed until their tongues’ roots ached. Each part of their bodies, each smooth curve, glistening, lubricated, became an empire of delight.
    At last they were raw, bruised, battered, sore, sleepy, laughing, content, and lay still. He drew a sheet over them as the sweat cooled on their bodies, and they curled up together in the arms of night.
    Neither had been aware for one moment of the figure watching them from beyond the window.
    At the same time one of the Black Medjays kicked Nehesy hard in the stomach. His left eye was already split and closed, and they had sliced off one ear with a knife. Blood filled his mouth and he could hardly see. His heart was filled with a dark cloud, through which pain drove in the form of brilliant light. It had been worst when they pushed the needles under his fingernails.
    ‘You are in an ugly mess but at least you are still alive. We could patch you up, let you go, even give you your job back.’ Kenamun’s voice was patient, but it an edge now. It was three hours since they had brought Nehesy here and still, in this back room of Horemheb’s palace, its dun walls smeared with more blood than Kenamun would have thought possible if they had slaughtered an ox, the big man had refused to talk.
    Strapped on his back to a heavy wooden table, Nehesy heard the voice, but it came from beyond the stars. His tongue, which he had bitten hard in his attempt to conquer his pain, and then again by accident, had swollen to fill his mouth. It no longer belonged to him; it was a lolling thing, large and clumsy, a beast in pain that had lodged inside him. His stomach, bruised and smashed, felt as if it contained folded paper. Far away below him and to his sides, his arms and legs sent back dull signals of distress. He managed to mumble something. His torn ear thundered with pain.
    ‘He’s finished,’ said the sergeant in charge of the detail, nervously. Kenamun took a serrated knife and sawed off Nehesy’s left hand. The huntsman bellowed with agony.
    ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Kenamun. ‘Plenty of life left there.’ He brought his face close to Nehesy’s, smelling his sweat and blood with excitement and distaste, thinking how much more he would enjoy doing this to a woman. But he was frightened too. Someone had found out too much. Getting rid of the doctor had not been enough.
    Kenamun drew back and glanced round the drab room, wiping his knife clean on a rag. He caught a look of fear and contempt on the sergeant’s face, and noted that here was another not to be trusted. How quickly the numbers of them spiralled; those who were fine at the start but who turned out not to have the stomach for seeing the thing through. Perhaps in the end the only ones they would be able to depend on would be found within the ranks of the distant Delta army. But the two other torturers were younger — brawny, square-shouldered, ox-headed men from Busiris. They had shown no qualms during the session. They had beaten Nehesy so hard with their truncheons at the outset that it had even been necessary to restrain them. Now, they were wrapping linen rags round their fists to protect their palms from the wire lashes they were preparing to use.
    Nehesy was huge. His bulk was increased by the swellings from the beating he had been given. Thinking of women, Kenamun felt again the disgust and excitement which tightened every muscle in his body.
    ‘Not the wire,’ said Kenamun.
    He showed them what to do himself. Putting a foot in Nehesy’s right armpit, he pulled slowly at the man’s wrist until the arm was out of joint at the shoulder, if you can yell, you can talk,’ he spat at Nehesy; but the big man had Passed out.
    The assistants threw water over him.
    ‘Now do the same to his right leg,’ said Kenamun. The sergeant left the room abruptly. Kenamun’s expression did not change. He watched them twist Nehesy’s leg until it hung limp.
    ‘Will you tell us who knows?’
    Nehesy did not reply, but his eye still glittered. Kenamun watched as he opened his mouth to speak, but knew that Nothing would come out — not because the huntsman could not talk; but because he was still not broken.
    Kenamun sighed, and took a small gadget from the table he stood at: two flat pieces