What do you have to say?

Day 5 of month Renutet in Shemu, season of the harvest

When Hori woke, his head ached. Still, he remembered what happened with shocking clarity. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he wouldn’t see the whitewashed walls of his bedroom, but the rough bricks of his cell, in which they’d thrown him last night without much ado. The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him fear the worst. He sat up.

Bad mistake. Stars danced before his eyes, and his stomach cramped. He’d have to throw up any moment, no matter if fear or hangover had turned his insides to water. The screeching of the cell door was too much. He jumped up and reached the hole in the corner serving as toilet just in time.

When the retching stopped, a tall Medjay addressed him. “Hori, son of Sobekemhat, you will give testimony before the Small Kenbet now.” He and a colleague grabbed Hori’s arms and dragged him out of the cell.

After only a few steps, the guards opened a door. Blinding sunlight stabbed Hori’s eyes. Slowly, he adjusted to the glare and saw a small courtyard. At the opposite side, several figures sat under an awning—the judges and assessors. Right before him stood a block of stone—for punishment. Hori felt sick again.

After the trial, they might bend him over the block and hold him down while one of the Medjay beat him. His legs gave out, and he stumbled. His guards caught him and dragged him the last steps. When the men released their grip, he couldn’t stand upright and collapsed in front of the pharaoh’s officials. Please, oh gods, let this all be a bad dream. This isn’t me! Would the immortals listen to his plea?

The voice reading the charges against him made his head jerk up in horror. It really was Nebit, whose mouth spit accusations at him like venom. Next to the vizier sat some officials he’d seen before, but recognizing his father among them struck hardest. Of course he was a judge—not only at the Small Kenbet but the Great Kenbet as well. Sobekemhat’s face looked carved in stone. His father witnessing his shame and humiliation almost weighed heavier on him than his own regrets and self-blame. He groaned.

“What do you have to say to these accusations?” the vizier ended.

Hori parted his lips to reply but his tongue lay in his mouth like a dead animal: fat, furry and unmoving. If only he could get something to drink. At a blow to his back tears welled up in his eyes. “I…” he stammered. “I’m so sorry.” Then he wept.

“So you confess your crime?” Satisfaction dripped from Nebit’s voice.

Had his verdict already been rendered? No, that couldn’t be. “Please, let me explain. It was an accident,” he pleaded.

“Guards, place the convict on the block!”

Strong arms pulled him up. Black dots filled his vision. Through the fog in his head he heard his father’s words. “Hold on, without verdict nobody is punished in Kemet. Also, I would like to hear the full story.”

Carefully, Hori opened his eyes. Some of the officials nodded, others whispered to each other. For a moment he met his father’s gaze. Worry and fear showed in his eyes. Did he care for his youngest son after all? Hori felt consoled and energized.

“Speak up then,” someone prompted.

“I’m no thief in the night, who steals from his fellow man, nor am I a villain, who batters someone to death…” The words came to his tongue now as if of their own accord. Hori related the events of last night but omitted the role noble Sitamun had played. He couldn’t say why—maybe he feared to enrage the vizier even more, maybe he felt dirtied by what he’d witnessed.

The longer he spoke, the more his father’s features relaxed, and that encouraged him. Was there still hope for him? During the interrogation he felt like his winged ba hovered above him and watched the proceedings carefully, while he answered questions. Finally, silence spread in the courtyard. The judges weighed his statement in their hearts. Tension gripped his own heart while he waited for what lay ahead. Only the vizier kept his hate-filled gaze fixed on him. Of course he couldn’t expect any understanding from him. No matter if by accident or intentionally, he’d caused the death of this man’s oldest son—possibly the bearer of all his hopes.

“Hori, son of Sobekemhat, after thorough deliberation, we realize your case shall go before the Great Kenbet. Until then, you remain in custody.”

For a moment Hori’s breath caught. He’d have to account for his actions in front of the Lord of the Two Lands. His thoughts tripped over each other. Was that good or bad? And when would the next Great Kenbet convene? In the worst case, he might have to spend several moon cycles in a cell. What was harder to bear—uncertainty of his fate or spending the last hours of his life in full knowledge of certain death?

When the Medjay pulled him from the block, whose pitted roughness he’d come so close to feeling against his chest, relief flooded him.

Dumped back into his cell, Hori welcomed the isolation of the shabby abode like a home. He spotted a jug of water next to the bed and drank greedily. The pounding in his head lessened and gave way to fear. After a while, footsteps grew louder, and muffled voices sounded. When the door opened, his father entered.

“Make it quick,” the accompanying Medjay admonished.

Sobekemhat ignored the man and sank onto the cot instead. To see his father so dejected and—yes, old—stabbed Hori’s heart. “Father…” he whispered.

In the dim light seeping through the narrow slits in the wall, Hori recognized the usual mix of disappointment and contempt in his features.

“Why did you have to disgrace your mother and me like this? What were you thinking, prowling around in such a disreputable quarter and getting into a fight like a stray dog?”

Hori buried his face in his hands. Then the all too familiar defiance welled up in him. “I told the truth. Neferib was about to force himself on the girl. I only wanted to prevent such a crime, but he was drunk and fell in a most unfortunate way. I didn’t…fight like a stray dog. My intentions were honorable. If you only knew what a depraved family this is!”

“Don’t you dare pour dirt over noble Nebit. You’ve hurt the man enough!”

“I’m sorry. Oh father, I don’t understand how all this could have happened either.” Pleading, Hori reached out to him, but Sobekemhat snorted with contempt.

“For your mother’s sake and to protect my reputation, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

He stood and pounded on the door. “Hey, guard! Open up.”

Of course. To save his reputation. How could he have been so naïve to think his old man worried about him. For a long time, Hori stared at the door through which his father had left.

The days dragged on in dull monotony, and just as inevitable as the sun god taking his course over the horizon, Hori’s thoughts circled around the same questions. At night he jerked awake from horrible nightmares of his Judgment of the Dead. If the scale tipped to the side in which his heart lay, weighed against the feather of Maat, and if the devourer’s mouth opened, he’d know what fate awaited him. No more visitors came, so the only diversion in his drab existence happened once a day when fresh water and a simple meal of lentils and onions were brought to him. Gradually, the realization that endless uncertainty was worse than a quick death turned into a bitter lump inside him.

Therefore, he felt immense relief when the Medjay, bringing his meal, announced, “Tomorrow, the Great Kenbet will convene. Then you’ll be condemned!”

That night, sleep escaped him. In his mind, he pieced together his statement. Would his words even carry any weight? If the witnesses testified against him… But why should they?

Hotep’s cry rang in his ears. “He k-killed my b-b-brother!”

What if Nebit bribed the innkeeper to say the same? No, the Vizier of the Two Lands would never do something like that. More than anyone else, he was obliged to serve Maat, the divine order. His heart, though, was filled with hatred for the murderer—as he thought—of his son. If it had been up to Nebit, he’d have sentenced him to death at the first trial without much ado. Now, everything depended on the pharaoh. Senusret, the third of this name, had only recently ascended the Horus throne. His father had been a fair ruler. Hopefully, the gods had also gifted his son with prudence and circumspection.

Hori rose from his cot and paced the cell. Through the slits in the wall he could see a bright star, and it seemed to wink at him. The notion consoled him somewhat. Oh gods, don’t let them to punish me for something I didn’t do. Maat, feather of truth, you know my heart. It lacks evil intentions. Let me survive tomorrow’s trial and I’ll devote my life to you.