A Vile Justice lb-3

by Lauren Haney

  "You were afraid of her?" Nenu barked out a disdainful laugh. "She seldom had occasion to so much as notice me, but I'd have stood up to her if she ever talked to me like she did most everyone else around here." He looked at Kames as if daring him to challenge the claim. "A woman like her… Well, she talked big, threw her weight around, but she bowed low to a show of strength."

  The older man winked at Bak, deriding the young man's braggadocio. "Some men like doing battle with women; I don't."

  Nenu gave him a searching look, as if he suspected a slur on his manhood.

  A flock of pigeons wheeled overhead, wings whirring. They swooped down all at once, dropping onto the walls, the granaries in the next yard, the roof of the servant's quarters.

  "I've heard Sergeant Semnut stood up to mistress Hatnofer more than once." Bak had heard no such thing, but from the way Djehuty had praised his old friend, the assumption seemed logical. Hopefully the charge, true or not, would distract the pair from the superstitious nonsense Nakht's mother had used to evade his questions.

  "Now where'd you hear a. thing like that?" Kames asked. "It's what you'd expect, I grant you, but…"

  "Senmut had no time for her!" Nenu curled his lip, disgusted. "He could get a smile and an arch look from any woman he wanted. Why would he bother with a dried-up old cat who approached all who came near with bared fangs and extended claws?"

  Kames rolled his eyes skyward. "Two of a kind, they were. Each time I saw them talking, I expected a storm, the likes of which I've seen only as a youth, sailing aboard a warship — on the great green sea." He frowned, as if disappointed. "But they never fought, just looked at each other like two wrestlers ready for a match, both unwilling, maybe afraid, to strike the first blow."

  Nend shoved himself away from the wall and glared down at the older, smaller man. "You never liked him, did you?" Kames stood up slowly, warily, and backed off a couple — of steps, startling the pigeons on the ground, setting them to flight. "You're4oo easily impressed by bluster, Nenu. By a man's words, not his deeds."

  An argument suited Bak's purpose, for it would loosen tongues, but he was well aware of how fast men could come to blows in a garrison untroubled by warfare. He pulled his legs close and shifted his weight forward, ready to leap between the pair should the need arise.

  Nenu, his chin thrust out, took a step toward the older guard. "What do you mean by that?"

  Keeping a wary eye on the younger man, Kames edged toward his spear. Bak hissed a warning. The guard flinched, startled, and stepped back a pace. "Senmut was a good, reliable soldier, that I grant you, but he wasn't to be trusted in a game of chance or with another man's woman."

  "How would you know?" Nenu scoffed. "How long's it been since a woman's shared your sleeping pallet?"

  A flush of anger spread across Karnes's face, banishing caution. He took a quick step forward, fists balled, and swung on Nenu. The younger man, caught by surprise, ducked backward. Snarling a curse, he dropped his head low, ready to ram the man who had dared attack him.

  "Enough!" Bak lunged toward the pair, glaring at them, daring them to disobey.

  They stared defiance, forgetting for an instant who and what he was. Then comprehension flitted across their faces;, they backed off, formed forced, half-embarrassed smiles.

  "At the time of his death, Senmut was in charge of the household guards." Bak spoke in a cold and harsh voice, emphasizing his authority. "He was assigned to the garrison before he came here, was he not?"

  Nenu shifted from one foot to the other, cleared his throat. "He was-until the governor had him reassigned." "Senmut never failed to remind all who would listen that they were long-time friends." Kames stared straight ahead, taking care not to look at Bak or the younger guard. "Troop Captain Antef, when first he came to Abu, was unimpressed by the claim. He assigned him to quarry duty along with everybody else. Senmut thought himself above standing out in the sun all day, ordering men to toil like beasts of burden, so he outflanked Antef and got himself the softer task." Bak scowled at the men before him, letting them know they had yet to satisfy him. "You've both lived in Abu for some time, and you know of the desert storm that stole the lives of many men in the garrison, leaving only a few survivors. Was Senmut one of those men? One who came back alive?"

  The guards stood as stiff as posts, and as silent. "Well?" Bak demanded. "Was he?"

  "Yes, sir!" Nenu said. "At least I've heard he was." "Was Montu also a survivor?"

  "So they say," Kames answered.

  Bak gave the pair a long, speculative glance. "That storm was surely the most important event in the history of Abu. The names of those who came back alive must be carved into the hearts of all who live here. Why do you feign ignorance?"

  The guards looked at each other as if seeking help, or support.

  Kames, the first to look away, shuffled his feet, seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "I never once heard Montu mention the storm, nor do l know anyone else who has. As much as he talked, as many tales as he told, he never uttered a word about a time you'd think he'd brag about through eternity."

  "Nor did Sergeant Senmut." Nenu gave his fellow guard a furtive glance. "I was told when first I came to Abu never to mention the storm. The men in the barracks said none who came back ever spoke of it, as if it were an awful nightmare they wanted to forget forever more."

  "Or were ordered to forget," Karnes mumbled beneath his breath.

  Bak left the guards outside the villa, well satisfied with what they had told him. The direction in which Nakht's mother had pointed, the idea she had given him, looked considerably more appealing than before. Of the five people slain, two had survived the storm and a third individual's parent had survived. Would the same prove true of Lieutenant Dedi and mistress Hatnofer?

  He turned down the corridor leading to the scribal office. Barely eighteen years of age, Dedi had, according to Kames, never set foot in Abu until three months ago. He could not have marched into the desert with that ill-fated caravan. But perhaps his father had served in Abu, as had Nakht's, and had been among those who survived the storm. Making a wager with himself that such was the case, adding a prayer to the lord Amon to ensure success, Bak stepped through the doorway, drawing the eyes of the ten scribes who toiled there and of Simut, seated on a thick pallet before them.

  The chief scribe pursed his lips in disapproval. "Here again, Lieutenant? I fear we'll have to make new seating arrangements, adding a permanent space for you."

  A youthful scribe tittered. The older, more experienced men dropped their eyes to the scrolls spread across their laps and set their pens to scratching, hiding smiles or smothering laughter.

  Eager to prove his theory, Bak ignored the jibe. "I'm in need of a personal record, that of Lieutenant Dedi." "We're not in the habit of letting anyone and everyone borrow our records. You must go first to Governor Djehuty and if he deems you worthy, he'll see you have clearance to take the scroll."

  Swallowing a sharp reply, Bak strode between the two rows of seated men and stopped before the chief scribe. "I've not come to borrow, only to read, a task I prefer to do here."

  "Well…" Simut hesitated, frowned. "Well, I'm not sure…"

  Through an open portal off to the right, Bak spotted in a dimly lit room several wooden frames filled with large pottery storage jars lying on their sides, row upon row, their mouths facing outward for convenience. He could see scrolls within the containers closest to the door, wTlile the vessels farther away, barely visible in the gloom, had been plugged with dried mud and sealed, their contents protected from deAruction by mice and men alike.

  "If you haven't the time to help me," he said, taking a; ouple of steps toward the records room, "you need only tell ne where to look." He assumed Simut would be as appalled)y the idea of having a stranger pawing around in his files as was the chief scribe at Buhen, a fussy old man who stood guard over his domain like a mother goose defending her brood of goslings.

  "Wait!" Simut scrambled to his
feet and hastened to the door. "Stay right where you are. I'll get it." Not bothering with a lamp, he walked into the dusky room.

  Bak bowed his head to hide a smile. He did not especially like the chief scribe, but he saw no reason to laugh aloud, to make him look the fool before his subordinates.

  Within moments, Simut returned, a good-sized greenishgray jar in the crook of his arm, scrolls jutting out of its wide mouth like the emerging petals of a huge, stiff blossom. He sat down on his pallet, supported the vessel between his knees, and searched through the documents, reading notes inked on the outside of each scroll. "Ah, yes. Lieutenant Dedi." He eyed the thin cylinder, shook his head. "Poor soul. His life snuffed out at such a tender age."

  Adopting an officious attitude to conceal his distress, he handed the scroll to Bak, set the container on the floor beside him, and returned to the document on which he had been writing. Standing close by, Bak untied the string binding Dedi's record and unrolled it. The information provided was as brief as the young man's life had been. About midway through, he found what he was looking for, or at least he hoped so. Dedi's father had been an officer, a lieutenant seriously injured in the line of duty, one whose meritorious career had opened the door to his son when he, too, wished to enter the army as an officer. The location and specifics of the injury were not given.

  "Do you recall if a Lieutenant Ptahmose was assigned to this garrison a few years ago?" Bak asked.

  Simut gavela long-suffering sigh. "Ptahmose? We had an infantry officer by that name. Why do you ask?"

  The chief scribe was irascible, not easy to get along with, the kind of man who brought out the worst in Bak, making him stubbornly resistant to revealing any information demanded. But Simut had been the first to hint at the secret Djehuty harbored, a secret he had implied Bak should learn.

  Bak lowered his voice so the other men in the room would not hear. "I know of the sandstorm, Simut, of the many deaths and the few survivors, and I believe I've found the link among those who've been slain during the past few weeks." He went on to explain, then asked, "Could the Ptahmose you remember have been Dedi's father?"

  Without a word, Simut laid his scroll aside and stood up. Lines, of worry etched his brow. He lit the wick in a reddish pottery lamp and carried it into the records room. Bak longed to follow, but knew an offer of help would be spurned. He remained outside, watching the play of light and shadow fall across the tall wooden frames, the scroll-filled jars, and the short, plump scribe reading labels scratched on the mud plugs.

  Ptahmose's file, older and harder to find than that of Dedi, was located out of the way at the far end of the room, but in no time at all Simut returned with a buff-colored jar long ago plugged and sealed. Dropping to his knees, he struck the plug with a stone, shattering the hard, dry mud, and sorted hastily through the contents. Finding the scroll he wanted, he broke the seal with a thumbnail, untied the string, and unrolled the papyrus. Bak knelt beside him; too impatient to wait for an answer, and together they began to read.

  "Ptahmose came from the provincial capital of Imet," Simut said, "and there he planned to return when he left the army and Abu."

  "… after recovering from severe wind- and sunburn received during a sandstorm," Bak said, reading on ahead. Simut ran a finger down the next column of symbols, stopped near the bottom. "Five years ago, that was, as you thought."

  Bak unrolled the much thinner cylinder of the younger officer and glanced through its contents. "Dedi, too, came from Imet, and there his father no doubt remains." Imet was a town north of Mennufer, many days' travel downriver from Abu. Ptahmose lived much too far away for the slayer to touch. His son's arrival in Abu must have seemed a gift of the gods.

  Simut noticed how slowly the pens were scratching across the scrolls, the curious looks of his minions. He stuffed the two documents into their respective containers, handed the lamp to Bak, and, carrying a jar in each hand, led the way into the file room. He did not speak until they reached the back wall, well out of hearing distance of the men outside.

  "You obviously believe someone-a close relative or friend of one who died in that storm-is slaying the survivors."

  "I think so, yes." The idea, which had seemed so right in the privacy of his own thoughts, sounded fantastic when aired.

  "Why now, after so long a time?"

  Bak waved away a wisp of smoke. "Perhaps some incident, maybe only a word or two, ignited a fire in the slayer's heart."

  Simut set the gray vessel on the floor and lifted the buff jar high, meaning to slip it into the space from which he had taken it. Noticing its gaping mouth, he made an impatient sound with his tongue and set it down beside the other.

  "My nephew vanished in that storm, you know, a youth as close to me as a son."

  "I didn't know." Bak eyed him with interest. "Do you resent those who returned, Djehuty among them?"

  "No longer, but at the time I did. To lose so fine a young man, one beloved by all who knew him. So brave, so…" Simut's voice faltered and he gave a cheerless little laugh. "Djehuty was always one who knew better than anyone else, even when we played together as children, but in this case? No, no man can be blamed for the fury of the gods."

  "I rememlVr the men returning from the storm," Khawet said, pity clouding her face. "I'd gone to Nubt for a few days, to my father's estate. Most who survived wandered out of the desert near there-or farther north. Close to death, they were. Burned by the sun, thirsty, starving, so worn they could barely put one foot in front of another."

  "Your father among them," Bak said.

  "He survived, yes, and each day that's since gone by, I've thanked the lord Khnum."

  She stood at the side of a small, square courtyard, watching four young women bent over limestone mortars sunk into the floor, pounding grain with stone pestles. Lengths of newly washed linen stretched across a dozen or so heavy rope lines shaded them from the merciless midafternoon sun but provided no relief from the heat. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and stained their dresses. The heavy odor of crushed grain failed to mask the smell of their bodies.

  "Far more men died than lived," Bak said. "In a small, tight world like Abu, where most who manned the garrison at that time came from families who've lived in this province for generations, there must still exist many friends and relatives of those who were lost."

  "I was most impressed when I heard of the patterns you saw in the slayings, but in this case?" She touched him lightly on the arm, then quickly withdrew her hand. "A man would have to be terribly bitter to seek revenge after so long a time."

  He no longer mistook the gesture as a sign of intimacy, as he had been inclined to do before. She must habitually touch others, he thought, or in this case was merely displaying regret that her opinion differed from his. "I've found no other tie binding Nakht and the three men."

  The sound of male and female laughter drew her eyes toward a wooden gate standing ajar at the rear of the court. "I must get on with my duties. The bakers and brewers toiling beyond that wall await direction." She remained where she stood, letting him know she preferred he leave so she could carry out the remainder of her tasks alone. "What of Hatnofer? How was she linked to those who survived the storm?"

  "I'd hoped you could answer that question. I've been told you knew her better than anyone."

  "I knew her, yes, but she never confided in me." "Did you not tell me she was a mother to you?"

  Her voice grew sharp, annoyed. "She never ceased to treat me as a child, Lieutenant."

  He suspected her anger was directed at the dead woman, not him. Lest he err, he attempted a smile, hoping to disarm her, but a whiff of crushed grain made him sneeze. "What of her family?" he managed, and a second sneeze overwhelmed him.

  A fleeting smile acknowledged his discomfort. "She was a foundling, a babe left on my father's doorstep in Nubt. If she had a family in Abu or Swenet-or anywhere else, for that matter-she never knew them." Glancing at the gate, she ed~, ed away from him. "I must go. With Hatnofer n
o longer here, I've no time to linger."

  "One more question," he said, stopping her flight with an upraised hand. "Of all those who have the freedom to walk through this compound, who had close friends or relatives that vanished in the desert?"

  "Most of the servants lost men near and dear, as did the guards. I know Amethu, Simut, and Ineni lost someone close, and I believe Antef did. I, too, cared for men who never returned: lieutenants Amonemhab, Nebmose, Minnakht, and Neferhotep. I miss them even now, all in the prime of life, lost forever to the wind and the sand."

  Again she briefly touched his arm. Turning away, she hastened across the court and out the gate, which she swung closed behind her. Bak watched her go, sympathizing with her plight. No wonder she was irritable, he thought; she had every right to be. She had, only two days before, found the body of a woman as close to her as a mother, and she was now burdened with that woman's duties in addition to her own. She was mistress of a household ruled by a man who appeared to Bak impossible to please and was wed to a husband she seemed not to love.

  "Kasaya's fallen in love?" Bak chuckled. "Not again!" "This time he'll be lucky to escape a free man," Psuro said, grinning. "The girl toils in the governor's kitchen, where she's student to the chief cook-her mother. The old woman's the best I've come upon in many a year, and she's stuffing Kasaya like a goose being force-fed for slaughter." Walking side-by-side, laughing, they turned a corner into the lane that would take them to their quarters. Failing sunshine lighted the upper edges of the taller buildings, while the deep shadow of dusk filled the narrow walkway. The odors of fish and onions, of herbs and cooking oil, wafted down from the rooftops, as did the soft voices of families enjoying their evening meal.

  "Does he realize how dangerous his position is?" Bak managed.

  Psuro shook his head. "He's too busy shoving food into his mouth to think of the consequences."

  Stifling laughter as best he could, Bak stopped in front of their quarters and shoved aside the mat hanging over the door. The room lay in deep shadow, the objects inside losing color and definition. "Djehuty has an estate at Nubt. If you see a crisis on the horizon, I'll send Kasaya downriver, out of harm's way."