by Lauren Haney
Psuro gave him a pained look. "But sir!"
Bak took the basket from the old woman and handed her a plastered wood token for the garrison quartermaster so she could collect the grain due her. As she shuffled away, he grabbed the uppermost of the two stools Psuro had stacked, one upside-down on top of the other, on which to place the food if by chance they had already gone when she delivered it. Swinging the seat upright, he sat down and lifted the lid from the basket. The aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted out, competing with the smell of braised fish, which she had wrapped in leaves and placed atop the bread.
A low moan drew his eyes to Kasaya, who was lying on his sleeping pallet, face to the wall, suffering from the previous evening's overindulgence.
"The instant I tell Djehuty about the archer, he'll send us packing. How will we account to the vizier if later, ten days from the day of Hatnofer's death, when we're well on our way to Buhen, a courier delivers a message that the governor's been slain?"
"He'd not be pleased," Psuro answered ruefully.
Bak spread open the leaves, took a flattish loaf still warm from the oven from beneath them, and laid a fish, equally warm, across the bread. Passing the basket to Psuro, he said, "We don't know for a fact that the archer's dead. I lived through worse rapids, thanks to the lord Amon. I know few men do, but…"
"Unless they know the waters well," Psuro cut in.
"If he knew the river, would he have allowed himself to be pressed so close to the island that he had nowhere to go but into the maelstrom?"
"No, sir."
Psuro took a loaf and a couple of fish from the basket. Winking at Bak, he knelt beside Kasaya and held the food close, giving the younger man 'a good, strong whiff. Kasaya moaned louder and shoved the offending hand away.
"Too much celebration," Psuro grinned. He walked to the stairs, sat down, and the smile faded. "And now you say we had no reason to make merry."
"The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the gifts we've found here, the threat they imply, have nothing to do with the archer. The goal was probably the sameto get us out of Abu one way or another-but the means of reaching it was entirely different."
"Which of the two is the slayer?"
Bak took a bite of fish, thought over his answer while he chewed, swallowed. "I think the gift-giver the more likely. He has sufficient imagination to work out the patterns I spotted when first we came to Abu. I've seen no sign that the archer is that creative."
Psuro shivered. "I don't know which was worse: the rat or the melon."
"If the slayer still walks the halls of the governor's villa, as I believe, a dap or two more might bring forth the truth. If I err, and he died yesterday among the rapids, the worst we can do is to rouse some dormant tempers."
Psuto looked up from his meal, frowned. "I dread to think of what we'll find on our doorstep tonight."
"So far, the gift-giver has never thrown caution aside to enter the house in the full light of day. I think it safe to let you go about your business until an hour or so before darkness falls. Then I want you on the rooftop across the lane, your eyes locked on this house."
"You've only five more days, Lieutenant, and then-if your guess is correct-Djehuty will die." Amethu, seated on a low stool in the shade of a portico, glanced over the edge of the scroll open between his hands, giving Bak a quizzical look. "Are you closing on the slayer, or aren't you?"
"Perhaps." Bak stood before the steward, resting a shoulder against a slim wooden column. A yellow cat paced the floor around him, rubbing against his legs.
"Humph!" Amethu rolled the document tight and dropped it into one of three baskets lined up beside his stool. "You sound like a man who knows no more now than when these distressing events began."
"`Like the granite in the quarries south of Abu, sir, this problem I must solve is made of many tiny granules, some transparent, others opaque, all squeezed so tight together they're difficult to pry apart."
The steward gave him a sharp look, as if he suspected he was being made light of. "Have you thought to bend a knee before the lord Khnum? A plump goose or a tender young kid would make a worthy offering."
Bak vaguely recalled someone needling Amethu about religious fervor. "I fear he'll pay no heed without diligent effort on my part."
"Have you seen the shrine at the back of the god's mansion? The shrine of the hearing ear? I often go there. It's a quick way to seek the god's aid, convenient, providing solace in times of travail." Amethu's bright eyes darted toward Bak. "You, as a police officer, would find it of special comfort and worth. An image of the lady Maat is carved high on the wall, wings outspread to encompass all the world."
If the steward had not been such a staid individual, Bak would have suspected him of using talk of the gods to retaliate for his own comparison of granite with the problem of murder.
"Sir!" An earnest-faced young scribe hurried across the patch of bare earth outside the colonnade, ducked into the shaded portico, and presented a large chunk of broken pottery to the steward "Here's the inventory of linens, as you requested"
"So soon?" Amethu took the shard, glanced at the numbers, and scowled "Are you certain you counted all the uncut lengths, the sheets, the…"
"Our supply is very low, sir." The young man appeared untroubled by the implied criticism. "Over the past few weeks, we've sent a large quantity to the house of death. With so many people dying within these walls…"
"Yes, yes, yes." Amethu waved his hand, signaling silence. "The subject is one I prefer to forget. You've no need to remind me." He pursed his lips, thinking. "Go now to the men counting jars and dishes. They're certain to need your help. We've given no pottery away."
Puzzled, Bak watched the scribe hurry off. From the moment he had entered the compound, he had seen men scurrying hither and yon, writing pallets and water jars suspended by cords over their shoulders, carrying rolls of papyrus or baskets filled with limestone and pottery shards. Here, beneath the portico where Amethu sat, located at the end of three long, narrow warehouses, the activity was magnified tenfold.
"I've never before heard of anyone taking an inventory during the season of planting," he said. "Aren't your scribes needed elsewhere? Setting boundary lines, for example, or counting baskets of grain to send out to the fields as seed?"
Amethu's mouth tightened. "This was Djehuty's idea, not mine. All this work. All this interference in tasks for which he has no aptitude. The man should be taken into the fields and…" His mouth tightened, cutting off whatever punishment he longed to mete out.
Drowning in an irrigation ditch, Bak suspected. "From what I've seen and heard, he doesn't usually concern himself with the running of his household."
Amethu glanced around, assuring himself that no one would overhear. "Ineni," he said, lowering his voice. "It's his fault, his alone. He disobeyed his father, refusing to rid the estate of horses. Now Djehuty plans to disinherit him."
Bak, raising an eyebrow, knelt to scratch the cat's head, making it purr. "I thought he made an agreement at the time Ineni wed Khawet."
"He did, but he vows to have it set aside."
Bak's voice turned cynical. "What does the governor mean to do? Plead his case before the vizier?" A man he's known for years, he thought, one he counts among his friends. Bak's heart went out to Ineni, who stood little chance of retaining his due.
"I see you understand." Amethu eyed the shard in his hand, sighed, and dropped it into a basket. "I've known Djehuty since childhood, and I seldom question his actions. But at times he goes too far." His eyes darted toward Bak and his mouth snapped shut, as if he suddenly realized his anger had carried him into the opposing camp. "Stress. That's what's bothering him now. The reason he's being so contrary, so irrational. Must you come to this villa day after day, poking and prodding and prying as if we were all vile criminals? Must that Medjay of yours always hang around, asking impertinent questions of the household staff and guards?"
Bak took a seat on a mudbrick b
ench that ran along the wall. He doubted the questions were rhetorical, but he chose to take them as such. "You must've heard by now of my interest in the soldiers who vanished in the sandstorm five years ago."
"I've heard you seek to blame Djehuty for their loss." The steward scratched his prominent belly, frowned. "Well, let me tell you, young man, he came as close-to death as any man can and still survive. He owes his life to the gods, to the lord Khnum. They alone saved him. Those of us who stayed behind in Abu knew not what was happening out on the desert or how greatly our prayers were needed."
"I was told you lost someone in that storm."
Laughter sounded through a door leading into the rightmost storage magazine, scribes finding humor in the most mundane of tasks. The cat jumped into a basket of scrolls and curled up for a nap.
Amethu failed to notice. "You probably don't realize, Lieutenant, but the residents of this household talk to me. They confide in me as they would a respected uncle. I know you suspect one of us closest to Djehuty of slaying all who've died thus far, and I've been told you're aware that we each lost someone dear in the storm. You yourself have made it clear you think Djehuty's death the ultimate goal." He paused to get his breath.
Bak bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Go on." "From what I've been told, you've caught several of us at a time when our shoulders were bowed beneath the weight of anger or resentment. As a result, you've unearthed a multitude of personal reasons for wishing Djehuty dead." "None of which would've resulted in the death of five innocent people," Bak pointed out.
"Exactly!" the steward said, smiling triumphantly. "Unless the one who slew them believed the storm a path that would lead me astray. Or unless the dead are bound by some other tie I've failed to discover. Or unless the slayer's wits are so addled he's developed a taste for murder." Amethu's smile faded. He opened his mouth as if to disagree, but could think of no opposing argument.
"Did you lose someone close in the storm?" Bak repeated.
"My only brother perished in the desert. He was much younger than I, but a man I held in high esteem. To this day, I miss him." Amethu hastened to add, "Let me assure you, I don't blame Djehuty. If I thought blame was due, I'd be the first to accuse. But I know him. I know him well." His eyes probed the area outside the colonnade, searching again for an eavesdropper, and he lowered his voice to a murmur. "Djehuty is usually a man of strong will, but he can sometimes be manipulated. I'm convinced someone offered poor advice and he, rattled by the tempest, heeded words he should've rejected."
Bak could see he was getting nowhere. Amethu either sin cerely — liked Djehuty and could find no wrong or feared for his lofty position-or he was an accomplished liar. "Because your tasks meshed with those of Hatnofer, you must've been as close to her as anyone. Other than mistress Khawet, of course."
"Me?" Amethu shook his head. "I'd not use the word `close.' Nor, I suspect, would Khawet. The woman ran this household in an admirable fashion, but she was as cold as a night can get on the desert."
"As the confidant of all who toil in this villa day after day.. " Bak could not help smiling. "… you've surely heard that I'm seeking a connection between her and those who died in the storm, or those who survived."
"She was a foundling-as I believe you already knowand her husband died many years ago, leaving her childless."
Bak allowed impatience to enter his voice. "Few men or women exist alone, Amethu, and Hatnofer was no exception. She was mistress Khawet's wet nurse, which would've drawn them together as close as mother and daughter, at least when Khawet was a child. And I've heard rumors that many years ago Djehuty took the woman into his bed."
"He did, yes. As did I." Noting Bak's surprise, Amethu gave a wry smile. "It's difficult to imagine, I know, but I had hair then…" He patted his bald pate and his paunch… and the lithe body of one who spends his days at sports and hunting."
Bak tried to picture a well-built and handsome Amethu; the task was formidable.
"She was cold even then." Amethu surprised Bak with another smile, this filled with humor. "I thank the lord Khnum she held no warmth. I was young and ardent at the time, tempted by lust and a dream of home and family. If she'd offered the slightest encouragement…" He shuddered. "It was my good fortune that she remained aloof. I soon wed another, a good-hearted, gentle woman who showed me the true meaning of love and marriage. She filled my life to the brim, and she's with me yet."
Bak had to give credit where credit was due. Not many men would admit so freely to their youthful delusions, nor confess their gratitude for so narrow an escape. "I've heard Hatnofer harbored jealousy in her heart for Djehuty. Was that as true the day she died as when she was young?"
"You've been talking to Ineni, I see. He's told you of his mother." Amethu noticed the cat sleeping in the basket, scowled. "No, she hadn't shown him any special affection for some years, not since.." His voice tailed off and a new thought registered on his face, a memory come to life.
"Tell me, Amethu, what've you recalled?"
"Something I once heard…" The steward's eyes darted toward Bak and he hesitated. "A rumor. But even whispers in the wind ofttimes contain some truth."
"Tell me."
"I heard…" Amethu paused again, shrugged. "Exactly how long ago I don't remember, but I was told by a man I knew at the time, the garrison quartermaster, that one of the survivors of the sandstorm was whispered to be her lover. A man named Min, a sergeant. He sailed north soon after the incident, which made me doubt the tale. Would he not have taken her with him if they were close? Or did the lord Khnurn smile on him, as he did me, and allow him to escape a free man?"
"You will pay for your transgression!" Djehuty's voice thundered across the audience hall. "You've taken four men from my fields north of Abu, men whose task it was to clean the irrigation channels and rebuild the dikes, and you've set them to work on your own fields. You must free them today and send them back to me, and you must reimburse me for the time they've been within your power."
"But sir!" The man on his knees before the governor's dais, his body bent until his head touched the floor, was so frightened he trembled from head to foot. Bak, standing at the back of the columned hall beyond the reach of long shafts of midafternoon sunlight, could clearly see his fear.
"Silence!" the guard commanded, stepping forward to prod the offender with his foot.
Djehuty glared down at the prisoner, his expression dark and unforgiving. "In addition, you'll receive two hundred blows and five open wounds."
Someone gasped, then quiet descended upon those in attendance, thirty or so men scattered throughout the hall. The judgment far exceeded the norm. The kneeling man whimpered. As if released by his cries, shocked murmurs traveled through the room, rising in volume until Djehuty could not help but hear. His mouth set in a thin, hard line. Bak was as stunned as the rest. If the offense had been committed against the estate of a god, the punishment might be fitting, but this was a private matter.
"So be it," Djehuty said, rising from his chair, signaling the end of his audience.
The murmurs dwindled, the men standing among the columns stared. Djehuty stepped down off the dais and strode ' from the room. Lieutenant Amonhotep, looking unhappy but at a loss as to what he could do, hurried after him. The guard collected his wits, jerked the sobbing prisoner to his feet, and hustled him from the hall. The men who remained looked at one another, surprised, shocked. Voices rose in consternation.
"This is the third day in a row I've come in search of justice," Bak heard someone complain. "Each day the governor has left early, ignoring six or eight of us whose pleas have yet to be heard. We've no choice but to leave, our business unfinished, and come again another time."
"Justice?" someone asked. "I'd not call his judgment of Ahmose justice."
"Who does he think he is anyway?" someone else muttered.
"Not half the man his father was, let me tell you."
Bak stared at the door through which the prisoner had been taken.
Amonhotep had had no opportunity to intercede before Djehuty's judgment, and the governor was too stubborn to alter his decision after the fact. By punishing the man far beyond his due, Djehuty was poisoning the hearts of the people of Abu.
He hurried from the hall, leaving through the same door the governor and his aide had taken. He hoped he would find Amonhotep alone. If so, maybe he could lure him away from the villa. Freed of Djehuty and the weight of responsibility, freed of the many tasks that fell on his shoulders, the young officer might let down his guard and be more forthcoming.
He found himself in a short, windowless corridor lit by a narrow strip of light reaching in from the room beyond. A guard stood midway, looking in the direction the governor had gone, rubbing an elbow. He heard Bak's step and swung around. Though difficult to see in the dimly lit passage, Bak recognized Nenu, the none-tbo-bright young man who had helped him search for the archer after the first attack. "Lieutenant Bak. Sir!"
"What're you doing here? Don't you usually guard Nebmose's villa?"
"My sergeant sent me with a message for Lieutenant Amonhotep. I tried to deliver it just now, but didn't get the chance." Nenu, sounding aggrieved, walked with Bak up the odor, rubbing his elbow all the while. "The governor brushed me out of his way as he would a fly, shoving me hard against the wall."
In the brightly lit room beyond, Bak got a better look at the young guard. His right temple was skinned, his eye black, his lip swollen and cracked. An ugly and no doubt painful abrasion ran down his arm from shoulder to hand, and the knuckles of both hands were swollen and red. The strong scent of fleabane emanated from a cloth covering some type of injury to his leg.
Bak stared.", By the lord Amon, Nenu! What happened to you!"
The guard shuffled from one foot to the other, gave a halfhearted smile. "A fight, sir."
"Dare I ask who won?"
"I would've, sir, except…" Nenu refused to meet Bak's eyes. "Well, he hit me in the stomach and knocked me down. My head struck a rock. I must've lost my wits for a while, and when I came to my senses, I had these." He gingerly touched his arm and motioned toward his leg. "I guess he kicked me when I couldn't fight back and dragged me along the ground. Only the lord Set knows what else he did."
