by Lauren Haney
Other than the sandal Bak had let fall the night before and Perenefer’s footprints, the light sprinkling of sand on the floor showed no sign of intrusion. Both men were convinced no one had been inside the shaft since the foreman’s last ex-pedition, but they agreed that one of them should go on to the end while the other remained behind to call for help if he became stuck or if the tunnel collapsed. Perenefer, who had been there before and knew what to look for, was the most suitable of the pair to enter the hazardous tunnel, and he took for granted that he would be the one to do so. Bak made no secret of his relief.
“If the tunnel’s as it was when last I saw it, it’s not very long. Only six or eight times the height of a man.” Perenefer handed a coil of stout rope to Bak and tied one end around his own waist. “If I yell, pull as if the lord Set himself was after you. If you can’t pull me out, call for help. I’d not enjoy spending my last moments buried alive.”
The thought made Bak’s skin crawl.
Taking an oil lamp with him, Perenefer got down on hands and knees and crawled head-first into the dark, con-fined passage. Bak knelt at the entrance, paying out the rope as the foreman moved forward. All the while, he prayed to the lord Amon that the tunnel would not collapse.
The chamber where he waited was hot and smelled musty.
The torch sputtered, giving off the noxious odor of rancid oil. At times bats would squeak somewhere within the tunnel and several would fly out, their daytime slumber disturbed by the man who had invaded their dwelling. Bak could not begin to imagine how uncomfortable Perenefer’s passage must be, how many other denizens of the darkness he must be encountering.
The time seemed endless, but finally Bak heard Perenefer’s muffled words. “I’m coming out. Keep the rope taut.”
Bak had not realized how long he could hold his breath until the foreman backed out of the tunnel and he allowed himself to breathe once again. Perenefer rose to his feet.
Neither he nor Bak said a word; they just looked at each other and grinned.
“Has the tunnel been extended?” Bak asked.
Perenefer shook his head. “No, as you thought. You’ll have to look elsewhere for whatever those men were after.”
Pashed and the foreman returned to their duties at Djeser Djeseru. Bak, Hori, and Kasaya spent the morning searching the ruined temple, repeating their previous day’s effort, but looking now for signs of a tomb and for minute traces of the intruders. In the end, they summoned Perenefer and Seked, who brought a team of men to help. They found nothing.
Whatever the two men had been doing the night before, they had left no visible sign. If a tomb other than that of the long dead king had been dug beneath the temple, it was too well hidden to find.
“If the malign spirit always makes himself known, as the workmen believe, either carrying a light or somehow making himself look. .” Lieutenant Menna paused, frowned.
“What did the artist say his friend Huni saw? A white ghost-like figure?”
Bak walked with the guard officer along the river’s edge, looking at the dozen or so skiffs drawn up on the narrow beach. “He’s probably wearing a white tunic. Made of a sheer linen, I’d guess. Something that picks up the light of the moon and makes it appear to glow.”
“Here’s the skiff I thought your father might like.” Menna stopped in front of a nearly new boat much like the one the fishing boat had destroyed. As usual, he looked superb, making Bak wonder how he managed to stay so neat and clean on so hot a day. “One man should be able to sail it easily.
Ideal for a physician, I’d think.”
Bak walked around the small vessel, pleased with what he saw. Most of the men and women who summoned his father with ailments or injuries dwelt on the west bank of the river within easy walking distance of his home, but six or eight times a week he was called to aid someone who lived across the river in Waset or far enough north or south to make sailing a necessity.
He thanked the lord Amon that Menna no longer resented his help. The officer had actually expressed appreciation when he had come with his tale of the nighttime intruders in the old temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. If this skiff proved to be acceptable, their friendship would be sealed.
“What could your intruders have been doing there?”
Menna asked. “Searching for a tomb to rob? Robbing one they’d already located?”
Bak spread his hands wide and shrugged. “We found no sign of an open sepulcher-or any other tomb, for that matter-and we searched that temple from one end to the other.”
“It seems a likely source of the jewelry you confiscated at Buhen. The objects are of a style from that period and once adorned a woman of royal blood. But surely you’d have found some sign of digging or a similar disturbance.”
“Where are the other kings of that period buried?” Bak asked, aware that there was a slight chance the jewelry had been taken from an earlier or later king’s tomb.
“Most were laid to rest in a cemetery at the north end of western Waset. We may not know of them all, but of those we do, their burial places were robbed and desecrated many generations ago.”
No surprise there. Bak studied the skiff, which was half lying on its side, with much of its keelless hull visible. The bare wood glowed with oil painstakingly rubbed in. A bou-quet of flowers with intertwined stems had been painted on its prow. He thought his father would like it.
“Tell me again what the men looked like,” Menna said.
“The one I saw was slightly taller than I am and heavier.
His face was broad, his hair short, his voice deep and grating, although the harshness may’ve been because he was angry.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Do you think they were deliberately trying to slay you?”
“I thought so at the time, but when we went down into the old robbers’ shaft, I wasn’t so sure. It’s not very deep.” Bak walked to the stern and knelt beside the rudder. Cool rivulets of water splashed against his heels. “Of course, they may not have known its depth. They may never have gone inside.”
“I doubt tomb robbers would turn their backs on the promise of wealth,” Menna chided, “especially the vast amount likely to be found in the sepulcher of a king.”
Bak smiled, accepting the teasing for what it was: good-natured and well meant. “Pashed assured me that every workman at Djeser Djeseru knows how dangerous it would be to dig deeper. If they know, you can be sure everyone who dwells along the west bank knows.”
“I’ve been told,” Menna admitted. “More than once.”
“I’d not like to dig down there.” Bak walked around to look into the open hull, to examine the crossbeams. “Perenefer knows the tunnel well, and I could see the relief on his face when he came out. He was truly afraid.”
“The sail’s practically new and so are the lines.” Menna pointed to the tightly furled white canvas and to various places where the ropes usually wore out first, demonstrating how free of wear they were. “If your intruders were indeed tomb robbers, perhaps they were involved with Montu.
Maybe he kept the source of his spoils a secret, and now that he’s dead, they’re searching for it.”
“Have you unearthed anything new to indicate he was the man you’ve been seeking?”
“I haven’t,” Menna admitted ruefully. “I made the mistake of telling mistress Mutnefret what I sought and why. She’s adamant that he wasn’t a tomb robber and refuses to cooper-ate in any way. Each time I go to their dwelling, she watches me as if I were a mouse and she a falcon ready to swoop down and eat me.”
Bak flashed a sympathetic smile. “There goes your chance to pay court to Sitre.”
“I fear you’re right,” Menna said unhappily.
“I hope the woman’s annoyance with you doesn’t extend to me. I mean to go today to her country estate in western Waset. If she’s there, I want no confrontation.” Bak reached inside the boat and pulled out the oars, which were no
t new but showed few signs of wear. “I think that a good place to begin my search for the men we disturbed last night.”
“So you’re coming around to my way of thinking, eh?”
“That Montu was a tomb robber? I’m not entirely convinced, no, nor will I be without further proof, but I’d be re-miss if I didn’t look there for last night’s intruders.”
“I wish you luck,” Menna said fervently. “I’d like to clear this problem away once and for all. Each time a new piece of jewelry surfaces, I feel like a man having a nightmare that occurs again and again and again.”
“One day you’ll lay hands on the thief-or find proof that Montu was rifling the old tombs.” Bak clapped the officer on the shoulder. “Now tell me of the owner of this skiff. My father must see it, of course, but it looks to be exactly what he needs.”
“Montu was a lot of things, Lieutenant, not all of them appealing, but he was not a man who would steal from the dead.” Mutnefret stood in the courtyard of her country house. Her greeting had been neither warm nor cool. Impatient, rather, typical of a woman distracted from a busy day.
Six women sat before tall vertical looms protected from the sun by a heavy linen awning. A seventh loom stood idle, testifying to the task Bak had interrupted when he had asked to speak with the mistress of the house. Doors leading into the dwelling, which was of considerable size, opened off all four sides of the court. Mutnefret seemed not to care what her servants heard.
The shuttles whispered softly as they shot back and forth, creating fabric of exceptional quality. Fabric to be traded, he felt sure, rather than used within the household. An additional source of income. No wonder the estate appeared so prosperous.
“Your daughter must’ve told you of the neck of a broken jar I found in his place of work.”
“The honey jar. Yes.” She put her hands on her ample hips and scowled at him. “He could’ve picked that up anywhere.”
“All the other shards in the basket in which I found it came from Djeser Djeseru.”
“There!” She flashed a triumphant look. “You see? You’ve proven my point.”
Bak gave her a genial smile. “As I told Lieutenant Menna earlier today, I’m not as convinced as he that your husband was robbing the old tombs.”
Mention of the guard officer’s name brought the frown back. “How convenient for him if he could lay blame on a dead man!”
He ignored the sarcasm. “I’ll need more proof than a broken bit of pottery before I blacken Montu’s name-or that of anyone else. Nevertheless, I must see the men who toil on this estate.”
The shuttles grew silent; the servants turned around to stare, their hostility clear. Their husbands, brothers, and sons would be among the men he had asked to see.
Mutnefret flung her chin high, cool and haughty. “I can assure you, Lieutenant, that my servants spent the whole of the night sleeping peacefully with their wives and families.”
The servants muttered a resentful agreement.
“You must see that I can’t accept your word for their whereabouts. Were you not in this house, in your own bedchamber, while they slept elsewhere?”
“I didn’t see them with my own eyes, I must admit, but the women you see here. .”
“Devoted mothers and wives and sisters, women who would say what they must to protect those dear to them.” He softened his voice. “If I don’t see a familiar face, you’ll be done with me.”
She had no choice but to acquiesce, and she knew it. “Oh, very well.”
To be certain he missed no one, he asked, “Have any of your servants moved away since your husband’s death?”
She flung her head high. “None have left, nor will they.
They toiled on this estate for my first husband and for his father before him. This is their home, Lieutenant, and so it should be.”
Mutnefret summoned the scribe who managed the estate.
Teti was a rangy man of thirty-five or so years, with the deep tan of one who spent more time beneath the sun than indoors with his writing implements and scrolls. Bak saw right away how quick the household servants were to obey him and the high degree of respect they showed him.
The scribe listened to his mistress’s order that Bak should see all the male servants. Stifling a visible curiosity, he took him outside the walled compound to a mudbrick bench, where a slight breeze stirred the air beneath one of four sycamore trees that shaded several outbuildings built against the wall. He told a boy of ten or so years-his son, Bak suspected-to summon the men of the estate. The boy hurried off, racing across a field of yellow stubble to speak with two men who were tending a mixed herd of cattle, sheep, and goats.
While they waited, Bak explained that he had been attacked and assumed the assailant dwelt on the west bank. He provided no specific details.
“My mistress told true, sir. Our servants were here through the night.”
“I must see them nonetheless.”
“Yes, sir.” Teti wove his fingers together and laid his hands in his lap. His thumbs chased circles around each other. He looked like a man uncomfortable with the silence but at a loss for words.
“What did you think of your master, Teti?”
“I thought our previous master the finest of men. As for Montu. . Well, they say if you’ve nothing of note to say about a man, it’s best to say nothing.”
“I’ve been told he shirked his duty at Djeser Djeseru.”
Bak smiled, inviting confidence. “I’ve yet to see a black goat turn white overnight.”
A faint smile touched Teti’s lips, but still he chose his words carefully. “I’ve thanked the lord Thoth many a time that our mistress trusts me to manage her properties. Hers and mistress Sitre’s.”
Bak eyed the scribe thoughtfully. “Are you inferring that Montu would’ve taken what was theirs and used it for his own purpose?”
“Not at all,” Teti said with conviction, “but he would’ve liked to control their holdings.”
“I don’t understand. If he didn’t want their wealth for itself, why would he. .?” Even as he formed the question, Bak remembered the way Montu had demanded that the paintings and sculpture at Djeser Djeseru be altered. “I see.
He wanted to be in authority and to demonstrate how important he was.”
“Yes, sir.” Teti seemed surprised by Bak’s perspicacity, and pleased that he understood. “When first our mistress wed him, she let him make a few decisions concerning the running of her estate. He used no common sense whatso-ever. She recognized the failing and saw how dangerous he could be to the well-being of all that was hers and her daughter’s. She said nothing to him, but quickly guided his interests elsewhere and told me to continue as before.”
Bak smiled. In her own way, Mutnefret had used a tactic similar to that of the craftsmen at Djeser Djeseru.
He shoved the thought aside as the first of the farmhands approached. While he and Teti had talked, he had seen the boy running from field to palm grove to field to pigeon cote to paddock, sending men striding toward the house. One man came to stand before Bak, followed by the rest in rapid succession. As on any prosperous estate, they were men of all ages who carried on a multitude of duties. He spoke a few words to each, letting them know they had no reason for fear, then allowed them to return to their tasks. The man with whom he had fought at Djeser Djeseru was not among them.
Where the intruders’ presence on the estate might have suggested Montu was a tomb robber, the fact that they were not to be found here told him absolutely nothing.
As the last man walked away, Bak said, “Are you aware, Teti, that Lieutenant Menna suspects Montu of being a tomb robber?”
“So my mistress has said.” The scribe shook his head. “I don’t believe it. He was indolent and authoritarian and thought far too much of himself, but I truly believe he was no thief.”
Bak described the shard he had found among Montu’s possessions, the sketch.
Teti laughed. “He could’ve picked that up in a doze
n different places. A neighboring farm. A village garbage dump.
A vacant plot of land in Waset.” He paused, struck by a thought. “If the jar was from olden times, he may’ve found it in one of the old cemeteries on the ridge north of our sovereign’s new temple. I saw him two or three times, walking among the hillside tombs and those on the plateau just above the floodplain.” He spotted Bak’s sudden interest, smiled.
“Those tombs are empty, sir, with nothing left to steal. No-mads sometimes camp in them when they bring their herds to the river.”
Were those the same tombs Menna mentioned? Bak wondered. Tombs long ago plundered, the guard officer had said.
“Isn’t that a bit farther afield than you normally travel, Teti?
Especially after toiling here from dawn to dusk. What were you doing? Did your mistress tell you to follow him?”
“Oh, no, sir.” The scribe looked sincerely surprised by the question. “When he didn’t come home as expected, she always assumed he was visiting a house of pleasure he frequented, amusing himself with a young woman whose company he enjoyed.”
“I’ve an idea that you’re a man who’d go out of your way to look after her interests, if you felt the need.”
“In this case, sir, I was looking after my own interests.”
Teti spoke with an indignation that melted away as fast as it had formed. “You see, sir, I lost my wife last year, and I’ve three children to raise. Oh, they’ll get plenty of mothering 190
Lauren Haney
from the women who dwell on this estate, but they need a true mother and I need someone to share my sleeping pallet.
I’ve found a young woman, daughter to an artist who dwells in the village below the ridge. My mistress has given me leave to visit her there.”
Bak gave the scribe a long, speculative look. “What’s the artist’s name?”
“Heribsen, sir.”
Bak could not help but smile. “Was he the man who gave your mistress-or, more likely, you-the idea of letting Montu believe he was the master of her estate when in reality you manage her affairs quite well?”
