Place of Darkness lb-5

by Lauren Haney

  That and the others being rifled. Of greater import, you must snare the man responsible.”

  Menna flung a quick glance at Bak, obviously unhappy at having a witness to what amounted to a reprimand, and looked back at Amonked. “As you well know, sir, my men and I have thoroughly examined the cemeteries in western Waset. More than once. We’ve found nothing amiss. I’m beginning to think the tombs that have been robbed are elsewhere. Near Mennufer possibly, where the majority of the jewelry has been found.”

  Amonked scowled. “Next you’ll be telling me Nebhepetre Montuhotep buried his loved ones at Buhen.”

  Menna flushed. “No, sir.”

  “That worthy king was entombed here, as were his successors. You can’t seriously believe his consort or daughter would be set to rest far away from the man who lifted the one above all others and gave the other her life.”

  “If a princess, she may have wed a man who took her. .”

  Menna must have realized how useless it was to press against an immovable wall. His argument foundered. None too eagerly, he said, “All right, sir. We’ll go over the same ground again. And again and again if we must.”

  “So be it.” Amonked turned to Bak. “I wish you to repeat to Lieutenant Menna all you’ve told me about finding these precious objects.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bak said, and went on to do so.

  When he admitted he had gotten nothing of value from Nenwaf, Menna said, “So you know no more than I do.”

  Having made no claim to superior knowledge, Bak was irritated. “Far less, I’d wager. I’ve not known of the rifled tombs as long as you have, Lieutenant, nor have I been in a position to walk through the cemeteries day after day.”

  “Would you like to assist me in my task? There are hundreds of tombs in western Waset, and we could use another man.”

  The officer’s voice was level, carrying no hint of rancor, but Bak was left with a feeling that the suggestion was barbed. Either Menna was still nettled because he had witnessed his censure or, in spite of Amonked’s warm introduc-tion, Menna saw this newcomer from the southern frontier as unworldly and unaccomplished. One who knew nothing of locating and snaring those who offended the lady Maat, one who could walk by the open mouth of a sunken tomb and fail to notice. Bak resented the notion, not uncommon among officers who had never been posted outside the capital.

  Amonked eyed Menna, his face revealing none of his thoughts, a mask Bak had come to know well in Wawat.

  “Lieutenant Bak will be spending a great deal of time in western Waset, but he’ll have no time to aid you. I’ve asked him to seek out the source of the many accidents at Djeser Djeseru.”

  Menna gave Bak a surprised look, smiled. “I wish you luck. From what I hear, you’ll be tracking most elusive game.”

  “I’m not a superstitious man, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not implying you are. I’m merely saying that superstition breeds accidents.”

  “Perhaps,” Bak said, refusing to give Menna the satisfaction of argument or agreement. “You made no comment when I mentioned the drawing around the neck of the jar in which the jewelry was hidden, a necklace with a pendant bee. Did it mean nothing to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  The response was not one that welcomed a suggestion, but Bak went on anyway. “Do you know of a beekeeper who labels his honey in that manner? He could’ve slipped the jewelry into the jar or, if the jar was reused later, he might know who used it after he did.”

  Menna shrugged. “I’ve never seen such a drawing, nor do I know of any man who uses a like symbol.”

  “According to the man I snared in Buhen, the sketch was placed on the jar so both he and the recipient would know exactly which container was of special value. Some such 32

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  method of identification would be needed if he and his fellows were simple couriers, as he claimed, with no knowledge of what was hidden inside. Have any inspectors noticed such a drawing?”

  He had Menna’s full attention now. “Not to my knowledge, but it’s worthy of discussing with the harbormaster.

  I’ll do so today.” He stood up, preparing to leave. “In fact, I’ll speak with him this morning, before I cross the river to western Waset. I appreciate the suggestion, Lieutenant, and I commend you for being so astute.”

  Bak watched him hurry away, suspecting that condescen-sion lurked within that final bit of praise. At least Menna had been sufficiently impressed to follow a new course that might bear fruit.

  If only their roles were reversed. If only he, Bak, could investigate the tomb robberies and Menna look into the construction accidents. Like the guard officer had said, superstition gave birth to mishaps, and Bak very much feared such was the case at Djeser Djeseru.

  Then again, an inordinately large number of accidents had occurred.

  Chapter Three

  “Two senior architects are responsible for the project: Pashed and Montu.” Amonked hastened up the wide causeway, setting a pace few men could maintain for long.

  The four porters bearing the carrying chair he had spurned hurried along behind. Bak had spotted them more than once wiping their brows in an exaggerated manner and exchanging glances of mock exhaustion, and not because of the midday heat. They were registering a good-natured acceptance of their master’s refusal to ride. An idiosyncrasy among those who walked the corridors of power.

  “Two very different men,” Amonked went on. “Pashed is sensible and reliable, as firm as a rock. Montu is as slippery as the snake you’d find under that rock. Both are equally competent in their tasks, and both should be credited for all you’ll see before you today.”

  Surprised, Bak asked, “Is not Senenmut, our sovereign’s favorite, the architect responsible for Djeser Djeseru?” The instant Bak uttered the word “favorite,” he regretted the slip.

  It was common usage among ordinary people when speaking of Senenmut, but he doubted it was aired above a whisper by denizens of the royal house. Too disrespectful by far.

  Looking amused, Amonked said, “He has overall charge, yes, but the project is large and he has a multitude of other important and time-consuming duties.”

  “Thus you’ve been given the task of relieving his burden.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I see.” Bak knew he should let the matter drop, but a twinkle in his companion’s eye prompted him to go on. “I’ve heard many times that he alone created the unique design of Djeser Djeseru. Is that not true?”

  Amonked’s laugh hinted at cynicism. “The ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep lies beside that of Maatkare Hatshepsut. You can look down upon it from my cousin’s new structure. After you’ve seen it, I’ll tell you of Senenmut’s initial plan for Djeser Djeseru.”

  Bak looked up the long, sloping causeway toward the distant construction site. The broad smooth path allowed materials and equipment to be hauled from a canal at its lower end to the upper reaches of the valley floor, an undulating landscape of golden sand nestled within a natural bay, a curving sweep of high cliffs with tower-like projections of varying height cut from the face by erosion. When building the causeway, sandy mounds and rock protuberances had been leveled and the low ground filled to make the ascent smooth and straight, the grade easy. Later, a small temple would be built at the lower end and the path would be paved and walled. Stone lions with the faces of Maatkare Hatshepsut would line either side of the walkway.

  From so low a perspective, he could see only a portion of the temple at the far end of the valley, where the cliff reached its highest point. A lower terrace, divided at the center by a ramp, was partially lined with pale limestone columns. A second, higher terrace had about half the columns in place at either end. The structure was being built along the base of a steep slope of rock fallen from the soaring cliffs that formed a golden brown backdrop. Bak was impressed. The setting could not have been more spectacular-or more befitting a mighty sovereign of the land of Kemet.

  To
the south and on lower ground, broken columns and a tumbled mound of stone stood atop a sandswept terrace, the ancient ruined temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. Bak had

  played among those columns as a child, brought into the valley by his father’s housekeeper, who had come sometimes to bend a knee at a shrine to the lady Hathor. The valley had been quiet during that long ago time, a place of adoration. If the rising dust ahead told a true tale, he would find no peace and tranquillity now.

  “Does Senenmut come here often?”

  “As I said before, my young friend, he’s a busy man.”

  Amonked’s mouth twitched. “A very busy man.”

  Bak, letting out a long, slow breath of relief, barely noticed the humor. Senenmut was no more a friend of his than was Maatkare Hatshepsut.

  “As you can see, the sanctuary is nearly complete.”

  The senior architect, Pashed, stood aside so Bak could look the length of the long, narrow chamber that had been dug into the hillside. The enclosed space smelled of the four men inside, sweating in the heat, toiling in sunlight reflected from outside by means of a mirror. They barely glanced at the newcomer. They were too preoccupied with adding color to the shallow reliefs that adorned the walls, images of Maatkare Hatshepsut making offerings to various deities.

  Bak did not tarry. He would have plenty of time to see details later.

  “The same may be said of the memorial chapels to our sovereign and her father,” Pashed said, hurrying on with his admittedly perfunctory tour of the construction site. He was a short, slight man of forty or so years whose brow was stamped by the deep wrinkles of an individual perpetually harried by life.

  “Where’s Montu?” Amonked asked. “I want Lieutenant Bak to meet him.”

  The architect slipped around a ramp of rubble at the end of an unfinished segment of portico, which when finished would surround the open court at the heart of the temple.

  Several architraves and roofing slabs lay at the foot of the ramp, waiting to be positioned atop twin rows of sixteen-sided columns. About half the portico was complete. Large limestone drums that would be stacked to form additional columns were scattered around the open floor in the center.

  Wall niches to either side of the sanctuary door stood empty, awaiting the placement of statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut.

  The work lay dormant, with not a man in sight. Bak could not understand the lack of activity.

  Pashed’s voice grew taut, censorious. “I haven’t seen him today.”

  “I spoke to him last week.” Amonked made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Apparently my warning did no good.”

  Bak glanced at the two men. Anger and discontent were far more likely causes of accidents than malign spirits, and Amonked wanted him to meet Montu. Did he suspect the missing architect of disrupting the work, not with intent, but out of neglect?

  Mouth clamped tight, Pashed stalked through an open portal on the south side of the courtyard. Bak found himself in an as yet unadorned anteroom off which two doorways opened. A pair of carefully placed mirrors caught the sunlight reflected from a mirror outside and sent it into two inner rooms.

  “Maatkare Hatshepsut’s memorial chapel and that of her father,” the architect told Bak, his tone waspish.

  Ignoring the anger, aware it was not directed at him, Bak dutifully peeked into the two chambers. Inside the smaller room, three men were painstakingly carving delicate reliefs of food offerings on the walls, while five painters were toiling in the larger, applying bright colors to carved proces-sions of servants bearing offerings of fruits and vegetables, beef and fowl. Though Bak appeared indifferent to the discussion in the anteroom, he missed not a word.

  “Montu claimed his country estate takes up much of his time,” Amonked said.

  “The property isn’t his. It belongs to his wife, inherited from a previous husband.” Pashed sniffed. “The sole task that occupies him is ordering her around. Her and her daughter and the scribe who’s managed the estate since long before they were wed. They’re the ones who toil alongside the servants, not him.”

  “His duty is here, and here he must come each day. And so I told him.”

  Noticing Bak standing at the chapel door, waiting to move on, Pashed beckoned. “Come. I’ll take you to the shrine of the lord Re.”

  He led them outside and along the incomplete wall at the front of the court. A break in the center wide enough to admit the large sledges on which stones were hauled would someday be made into a portal. A granite lintel and jambs lay nearby, waiting to be installed. Bak eyed the broken wall and half-finished portico, astounded that the court was not a beehive of activity. Why was the task not proceeding?

  “I’m tempted to have Montu sent north to toil on the shrine of the lady Pakhet,” Amonked said. Pakhet was a fierce lion-headed provincial goddess, and the new building was located in the desert west of the province’s very rural capital. Not a place a man accustomed to life in sophisti-cated Waset would wish to go.

  Pashed’s laugh carried an edge of meanness. “I can think of no task more fitting.”

  Passing through a doorway at the north side of the court, the architect hurried them through an anteroom whose roof was supported by four sixteen-sided columns and into a large chamber in which ten steps rose up the side of a high altar dedicated to the lord Re. The room was open to the sky, allowing the priests to commune freely with the deity. Here again Maatkare Hatshepsut, depicted in fine, brightly colored reliefs, was shown making offerings.

  “This shrine is complete except for statues of our sovereign that will be placed here and in the anteroom,” Pashed said.

  The trio returned to the courtyard, where Bak stopped to look around. “Djeser Djeseru has been under construction for five long years, Pashed, and still this upper level is in-38

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  complete. Why do you not have men here, finishing the portico?” Bak spoke more sharply than he intended, but Amonked’s nod of agreement told him he had not stepped beyond the bounds expected of him.

  “The workmen. .” Pashed hesitated, glanced at Amonked, said, “All right, you’ve come to learn the reason for our many unfortunate accidents, so you may as well hear the truth.” He paused, screwed up his face to show distaste.

  “The men fear a malign spirit. They spend more time looking over their shoulders and listening to whispered tales of lights in the dark and shadows where none should fall than in performing the tasks for which they receive their daily bread.”

  “They believe this part of the temple more fearful than the rest?”

  Pashed flung his head up in a superior manner. “If that were the case, neither artists nor sculptors would toil here, would they?”

  “There’s some truth in what Pashed says,” Amonked told Bak, “but he’s failed to mention another obstacle in the way of progress. Senenmut has several times changed the plan.

  He’s thinking now of making this open court a columned hall. Thus the work has stopped, awaiting his decision.”

  Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Pashed clamped his mouth tight, refusing to admit he had skirted around a part of the truth rather than lay blame on the man to whom he owed his well-being.

  Amonked, his thoughts masked, eyed the architect briefly, then turned away, led his companions out of the building, and stopped at the top of the mudbrick and debris ramp up which materials and equipment were hauled to this upper, most sacred part of the temple.

  The view was glorious: the hot, sunny bay nestled at the foot of the cliffs and, in the distance, a patchwork of brown and golden fields, of green garden plots and palm groves, marking the broad strip of farmland along the river, made in-distinct by the heat haze.

  They were standing on the upper terrace Bak had seen from afar, in reality a portico which, when completed, would span the front of the temple. The twin rows of columns, square in front, sixteen-sided behind, covered by roof slabs, were split into two segments by the wide gap in the center, yet to be completed. Two ove
rsized painted statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut in the form of the lord Osiris had been erected against the two northernmost ex-terior columns. Similar images would be placed all along the portico, looking out across the valley for all the world to see.

  Bak looked down upon the unfinished, lower colonnade he had glimpsed from the causeway. To either side of the ramp, which he assumed would ultimately be finished as a stairway, two rows of columns were being erected to form a portico. Just a few at each end had been built to their full height, with roof slabs in place. The roof of this lower portico, when completed, would form a broad, open terrace in front of the upper colonnade, which stood above and slightly behind the retaining wall that contained the earth on which the temple was being built.

  In front of the lower colonnade, the sloping terrain had been leveled to form a flattish surface, a terrace of sorts. To the north, the high side of the valley floor and a part of the fairly steep slope at the base of the cliff were being cut away and a retaining wall built to hold back the hillside. Another retaining wall was being built to the south to hold in place the dirt and debris shifted from north to south to build up the low side of the terrace.

  Raw stone newly taken from the quarry, and roughly shaped blocks whose purpose was impossible to guess, shared the terrace with stone cubes to be made into square columns, drums to become sixteen-sided columns, rectangular slabs for lintels and jambs, architraves and roof slabs.

  Scattered here and there, sometimes singly and sometimes in groups, were dozens of statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut in various stages of sculpting, from roughed-out blocks of stone to nearly complete sitting or standing figures or images of reclining human-headed lions. To the east, where the terrace fell away to merge into the landscape, the remains of an old mudbrick temple, neglected and crumbling, was gradually being consumed as the terrace was extended.

  Scattered among the stones were the craftsmen who were shaping and polishing parts of columns and statuary, and the workmen who provided unskilled labor. The skilled artisans dwelt in villages outside the valley along the edge of the floodplain, while the other men lived in huts built in a shallow hollow between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. These men had come from throughout the land of Kemet, men whose crops had been gathered, leaving them free to serve their sovereign. They had been pressed into duty to haul stones, dig ditches, build walls, whatever they had to do to pay off their debts or those of the noblemen on whose lands they lived, or to repay with labor offenses against the lady Maat.