by Lauren Haney
As she hurried out the door, he picked up a date and popped it into his mouth. He wondered who had been using who: Montu, who had gained comfort and wealth through the alliance, or Mutnefret, who had won a man of some status and the pleasures of the bedchamber.
Bak followed a spindly white-haired servant up an enclosed zigzagging stairway. Large wine vats lined the walls of each landing, giving off a heavy musty scent that failed to overpower the yeasty smell of baking bread that wafted through the house. At the top floor, they crossed a small sunny courtyard where three female servants were sitting in the shade of a palm frond lean-to, weaving coarse white household linen on upright looms. Beyond lay Montu’s private domain.
The architect’s office was spacious and bright, with three sturdy white-plastered mudbrick columns supporting the ceiling and, Bak guessed, heavy granaries on the roof above.
Four high windows made secure by wooden grills allowed the smallest of breezes to cool the interior. Not sure where he should start, he walked around the room, looking without touching. Along one wall, a wooden frame supported several dozen pottery storage jars, most plugged and sealed but a few open to reveal scrolls. Fortunately, Montu or, more likely, the scribe who assisted him in handling his affairs was an orderly individual, who had noted the contents on each jar’s shoulder. About half of them related to the business of the household, the remainder to Montu’s task as an architect.
“Where’s your master’s scribe?” Bak asked the old man.
“I could use his help in going through these scrolls.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but our mistress sent him to her country estate. Someone in authority had to be there, and since she has many decisions to make here in Waset, she sent Teti in her place.”
Bak nodded, well aware of the many options she would have to choose among when arranging for her husband’s embalming and burial. “Does Teti spend much of his time over there?” he asked, recalling that the scribe had been across the river the final day of Montu’s life.
“Two days out of three, sir.” The old man hesitated, added,
“Our master enjoyed the bounties of the estate, but had no talent for farming. Teti managed both land and accounts.”
“He appears to be a man of uncommon worth.”
“Indeed he is, sir.”
Turning away from the files, Bak studied the rest of the room. A thick pallet lay on the floor at the brightest end, marking Montu’s place, while a woven reed mat accommo-dated the scribe. Between the two lay scribal palettes, a water dish, and cakes of red and black ink; a bowl of aromatic leaves and dried flower petals; and a half-empty wine jar and a stemmed bowl with a reddish crust on the bottom. He eyed the bowl with satisfaction. If it told a true tale, no servant had cleaned the room since the architect’s death.
Close to Montu’s pallet were a basket of tied scrolls and several piles of papyrus scraps held in place beneath smooth, flattish stones. Near the scribe’s place were baskets of pottery shards and limestone flakes and three small plaster-coated boards, all used for rough calculations and writings.
Well out of the way against a far wall were surveyors’ and builders’ tools and rock samples. A cast-off tunic lay on a low table, and a pair of fine leather sandals had been kicked off near the doorway.
Bak dismissed the servant, dragged one of three stools close to the files and, with a resigned sigh, set to work. A cursory inspection of the household accounts verified his as-sumption that Montu had wed a wealthy woman. Mutnefret and Sitre had inherited in equal amounts the house in Waset and the substantial country estate on the west bank of the river. Bak was not a scribe, but he could see that the properties had increased in value slowly but steadily over the years.
Whether the scribe Teti had been guided by Montu-and Bak doubted he had if the architect had shirked his duty at home as at Djeser Djeseru-the women’s property had not suffered.
Moving on to Montu’s professional life, Bak found scrolls that revealed a man of modest talent who, as he moved up from the smaller projects to the large, had always toiled among others of equal rank, and had always stood behind another, more dynamic man. One such as Senenmut, who relied on lesser men to make his projects a success.
Beneath the stone weights, Bak found orderly piles of documents, half-completed drawings, and sketches of architectural elements. The rock samples, limestone one and all, he guessed had been taken from various locations around Djeser Djeseru. The pottery shards and limestone flakes would have been gleaned from a trash dump, their smooth, unblemished sides to be used for rough drawings, notes, and quick calculations of too small importance to be placed on the more valuable papyrus.
Glimpsing sketches and scraps of writing on some of the shards, he drew the loose-woven and rather worn basket close to take a better look. If Montu had already used them, he might have carelessly thrown away some hint of what he had been doing that had led to his death.
Lifting out one shard after another, he quickly realized the sketches were not the work of Montu, nor, he assumed, were the bits of writing. He found many fully realized drawings, most having no color, each created by an artist of exceptional talent. He recognized them as trial copies of the reliefs that adorned the walls of Djeser Djeseru, thrown away after the drawing was transferred to the temple wall. The back sides of the shards were bare, which explained why Montu-or, more likely, someone in his stead-had collected them for future use.
Rougher sketches embellished the remainder of the shards. Almost cartoon-like, they revealed a highly developed, sometimes vulgar sense of humor. Many were general in nature, funny but irreverent commentaries on daily life in the capital, on the surrounding farmland, at Djeser Djeseru and the Great Place. A small percentage represented Senenmut or Maatkare Hatshepsut, a few in an extremely unflat-tering way. These sketches, like the more accomplished drawings, had come from a trash pile at Djeser Djeseru, he felt certain.
Smiling at an especially humorous erotic sketch of an aging lover with a courtesan, he reached deeper into the basket. The shard he retrieved was the shoulder and neck of a broken jar. Curious, he turned it right side up. His breath caught in his throat. The sketch on its outer surface was incomplete, but enough remained to recognize the wing tips and rear segment of a bee and what might well be two beads in a necklace. It had not been drawn by as accomplished a hand as most of the other sketches in the basket. In fact, it looked very much like the drawing on the jar he had confiscated in Buhen.
Whether Montu had picked up the shard by chance or had deliberately hidden it among the others, Bak had no way of knowing. Could the architect have made the drawing himself? Could he have been the man stealing from the old tombs? Only a mission as serious as that, one that required secret activity, would account for his presence at Djeser Djeseru in the dead of night.
With rising excitement, he searched through the remaining shards. He found nothing more, which forced him to admit the shard could have been thrown away by anyone. Still, Montu could have gone into the valley to rob a tomb and by chance have bumped into the malign spirit. That man, fearing the terrible death he would face for causing the many deadly accidents, would most certainly have slain one who could, and no doubt would, air his identity.
Bak had not once considered Montu a tomb robber, but with the shard in his hand, the possibility filled his heart.
Tamping down his excitement, telling himself he had no real proof, he returned to the main floor and told a comely young female servant he wished to speak again with Mutnefret.
“I’m sorry, sir, but she’s gone to a sculptor’s studio to pur-chase a votive statue upon which our master’s name will be carved. She plans to have the image placed in the mansion of the lord Amon so it can share in the bounty of offerings presented each day to the greatest of gods.”
Is she easing her conscience because she doesn’t care that he’s dead, Bak wondered, or does she really believe him worthy of offerings? A man who cheated his co-workers out of his fair share of effort, o
ne who may have robbed the dead. “Is mistress Sitre available?”
“You wish to speak with me, Lieutenant?” Sitre asked, stepping through the doorway. She waved her hand to dismiss the servant, dropped onto the stool Bak had occupied earlier, and offered him the other seat. Her eyes were clear, beautifully made up. Her sobs had evidently been of short duration. “Did you find anything of interest in that wretched Montu’s place of work?”
“The basket of pottery shards,” he said, opting to stand.
“Do you know when he brought them home?”
The young woman was too preoccupied with adjusting her broad beaded collar to notice the shard in his hand. “A week or two ago, I suppose.”
“Was he in the habit of collecting them personally or did he ask others to do it for him?”
“Are you jesting, Lieutenant?” Her eyes darted toward him and she laughed, a harsh, jarring sound from one so lovely. “He’d never have stooped so low as to go through a trash dump. Especially not at Djeser Djeseru, where dozens of men lesser than he would’ve see him.”
Her dislike of her mother’s husband colored everything she said, irritating Bak, making him wonder how much could be at best an exaggeration, at worst untrue. “Do you have any idea who might’ve gathered them for him?”
“The chief scribe Ramose has an apprentice, his son, I believe.” She plucked a lily from the bowl and held it to her nose. The scent was strong, too sweet for Bak’s pleasure.
“Montu liked to take advantage of the boy. Of Ramose, really, since he could not refuse.”
Vowing to speak with the youth as soon as he returned to Djeser Djeseru, Bak rested his shoulder against a column.
“Are bees kept at your country estate?” Ordinarily he would not have asked such a question of a young woman of means, but if Pashed had been correct in saying she and her mother toiled beside their servants, she would know.
“Of course. Doesn’t every farmer keep them?”
He could see she was puzzled by the new subject. “Do you use all the honey you harvest, or do you have excess to trade?”
“I think we use it all, but you’d have to ask our scribe Teti to be sure. Why do you wish to know?”
He held out the shard so she could see the sketch. “I found this among Montu’s possessions. Do you identify your honey containers in this manner?”
“We don’t, no, but I think I’ve seen the symbol somewhere.”
“Can you recall where?”
“At the market here in Waset? At someone’s estate?” She waved the flower slowly back and forth beneath her nose, trying to recall. “Must’ve been a long time ago. The answer eludes me.”
“A neighbor, perhaps? Or someone with whom Montu was friendly?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Disappointed, he dropped onto the second stool. “Did Montu name the man who told him he also saw the malign spirit?”
“Are you serious?” Her laugh was scathing. “He thought himself the most important man in Kemet, Lieutenant. No others equaled him and none were worthy of mention except in passing.”
“He gave no hint, such as the man’s occupation?”
“He referred to him merely as ‘another man.’ ”
“With Montu no longer among the living, will you wed the young soldier you wished to wed before he interfered?”
He was fishing and he knew it, throwing out a line in the hope of catching almost anything.
“My mother told you of him?” Sitre’s voice rang with indignation. “After letting that wretched husband of hers be-troth me to another, how dare she speak of him!”
“She was making excuses for you. Offering a reason for your dislike of Montu.”
“Montu was vile, plain and simple.” She let out a scornful snort. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off me, yet he dared not touch me. He dared not risk angering my mother, losing her wealth and property. And he dared not soil me, for he’d promised me to a wealthy nobleman, thinking to raise his own position in life. Thinking to walk side by side with one familiar with the corridors of the royal house. Thinking he’d be considered an equal by men of royal blood.”
“Montu sounds to me like a swine,” Bak said, welcoming the opening she had unknowingly offered. “Dishonest through and through.”
Sitre looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he was out-and-out dishonest, Lieutenant. He had what I’ve always thought of as a convenient honesty. An honesty prompted by whatever he needed or desired at the time.”
Her answer seemed sincere, not inspired by her dislike of the man. Which led Bak to wonder exactly what Montu had hoped to attain that had driven him to rifle the ancient tombs, putting at risk a life of relative ease and luxury, a life most men would envy.
Chapter Nine
“You found this in Montu’s home?” Lieutenant Menna took the shard from Bak, walked to the door of his office, and looked at it in the better light of the portico that surrounded the spacious courtyard outside.
Bak followed, escaping from the tiny, cramped room with its overabundance of scrolls and pottery jars whose gaping mouths revealed additional documents. “The sketch of the bee looks too much like the one I found in Buhen not to be by the same hand.”
“And, like the jar you found there, you think this may’ve been used to smuggle jewelry.”
“I don’t know,” Bak admitted, “but we can’t overlook the possibility.”
“We.” Menna walked a few paces along the portico, swung around, and walked back. “I know you mean well, Lieutenant, and believe it or not, I do appreciate your offer of help.”
Bak clamped his mouth shut tight. He had come to assist, not quarrel.
Menna glanced at three perfectly groomed men-guard officers in the royal house, Bak suspected-standing in the shade of a large sycamore in the center of the court. They were deep in conversation, much too preoccupied to pay attention to what Menna had to say. The breeze had stiffened, carrying the smell of horses from a nearby stable. Dogs barked not far away, animals held in the kennels Bak had come upon while searching the large police compound for Menna’s office. Animals used for tracking, guard duty, desert patrol.
“I freely admit I’m an infantry officer with no experience at investigating criminal activity,” Menna said, “and I must confess that these thefts have me stymied. But I’ll learn best through my own mistakes and successes.”
Bak realized the guard officer was trying hard to tread a middle ground, to have his way without offending. He acknowledged his understanding with a nod. “I was a chariotry officer when I was sent to Buhen to stand at the head of the Medjay police. I knew nothing about my new task and had no one to instruct me. I erred more than once, and I’d like to believe I’ll never make the same mistakes again.”
“I’ve held this assignment for three years.” Menna’s tone was light, meant to be cynical, but it carried an edge of bitterness. “The guards who report to me have excelled in laying hands on men of no consequence who steal from burial parties, from people who visit the tombs of their justified dead, even from their fellow workers. I myself have sur-passed all others in preparing reports about their many small successes.”
Bak smiled at a jest that was obviously too close to the truth to seem funny to Menna. “Amonked says you know very well the cemeteries in and around western Waset and the people who dwell in the area. I’d think that would ease your task considerably.”
“The people know me and I believe they like me, but they won’t confide in me. Any theft they might mention could lead to the arrest of a brother or cousin.”
“Perhaps you’re too close to the problem and in need of another, less involved man’s thoughts.” Bak quickly raised his hand, stifling an objection. “Should you wish to talk, I’ll not tread on your toes. That I vow.”
Menna stared at him, undecided. After an interminable silence, he found stools for the two of them and ordered a servant to bring beer. He spoke at first haltingly, guarding his words, but the desire to speak out, the nee
d, quickly banished these signs of mistrust. He had thoroughly inspected all the cemeteries in western Waset, he said, and had found no disturbed shafts. He’d considered the ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep as the key to the rifled tombs, and had searched the desert plain and surrounding cliffs with no luck. He had personally examined each tomb opened by chance by the workmen building Djeser Djeseru and had watched as each had been sealed and covered over.
“You appear to have left no pebble unturned,” Bak said.
“I’ve missed something. What it is, I can’t imagine.”
“More than one man would be involved. Digging out a tomb shaft is hard labor.”
“Not many, I’d think. The more who know, the greater the chance of a loose tongue.”
“You’ve heard no rumors?”
“Only that ancient jewelry was confiscated at the harbor; therefore, an old tomb had to’ve been broken into. There’s been a considerable amount of speculation as to who might’ve done the deed, but no one can name the thief with any certainty. Each time I question men I suspect, they prove themselves innocent.”
The robbers had to be a close-knit group and exceptionally careful not to be seen or found out.
Bak picked up the shard, which he had laid on the ground beside his stool, and looked at the image of the bee. Could Montu have been rifling the old tombs? he wondered again.
As before, the query took him back to the other, equally important question: what other reason would he have had for being at Djeser Djeseru in the dark of night? “What can you tell me of Montu?”
“The man was insufferable.” Menna nudged away with his toe a gray-striped cat that was sniffing his beer jar. “He’d threaten at the drop of a wig to complain to Senenmut each time I suggested changes to improve security at Djeser Djeseru.”
Bak’s interest heightened. If Montu had been rifling the old tombs. . “What kind of suggestions did he spurn?”
“I can’t remember one that he accepted. At first, he infuri-ated me, but when I realized he treated everyone with equal venom, I learned to ignore him.”
