by Lauren Haney
Filling the sail with the northerly breeze, he sped upriver to a point some distance south of where the fishing boat had vanished from sight. He let the current carry him back downstream, using the oars only to ease the skiff to the shore so he could examine a vessel pulled out of the water for the night. The day was glorious, the heat tempered by a breeze ideal for sailing. If he had not been so intent on his mission, he would very much have enjoyed his journey.
He rarely spotted a lone fishing boat. Most lay on the beach in groups, the nets spread out to dry. The day’s fishing had been good, and the vast majority of the fishermen had come ashore by midday to sell the day’s catch if they earned their bread on the water or to take the fish to a country estate if they toiled for a man of property. Inevitably, one or two had remained behind to mend a net or repair a wooden fitting or clean a few fish to take home. These, like most men who toiled day after day for small gain, were a convivial lot and were as aware of each other’s business as men who toiled on the land. And that was what he counted on.
He must have stopped six or seven times before he entered a side channel that separated a narrow beach from a low island, a sandbar that had survived the yearly floods long enough for tall grasses and brush to take hold. More than a dozen boats of modest size had been drawn up on the beach, which ran along the base of a nearly vertical mudbank. Two men wearing skimpy loincloths sat in the shade of an acacia atop the bank, mending nets. He rowed his skiff close, jumped out, and pulled it half out of the water below them.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak of the Medjay police.” He saw no need to explain that his Medjays were far away in the land of Wawat. “I seek a boat. .”
“A boat!” Laughing merrily, the older man slapped his thigh. Like the nets they were repairing, he and his companion reeked of fish and the musty smell of the river. “That’s a good one. Best I’ve heard all day.”
The younger one sputtered. “There you are, sir.” He pointed at the row of vessels lined up on shore. “Or how about out there?” Guffawing, he swung his arm wide, indicating the many boats out on the river.
“A fishing boat,” Bak said, half smiling to let them know he held no rancor. Sobering, making his voice stern, he added, “Men’s lives may well depend upon whether I find it.
Can you help?”
Their laughter faded away and they exchanged a look easily read: they would help, but would not go out of their way, nor would they answer questions he failed to ask. This was not the first time he had faced a similar attitude, nor would it be the last.
Laying aside the nets, the fishermen rose to their feet.
“Anything we can do, sir,” the younger man said, winking at his companion.
Ignoring the mockery, Bak walked with them along the shore, studying the wooden hulls of the vessels, looking for signs of collision. More than half were skiffs used for ferry-ing people, produce, and animals across the river and were of no concern to him. The remaining five were fishing boats.
None looked any different than the twenty or so he had already examined farther upstream. All were scarred from striking small hazards floating on the water and from careless mooring. In most cases the wounded wood had darkened with time, proving the damage old. Where the scar was bright and new, it was too high or low on the hull or too far astern or its shape was wrong. He walked back along the line for a second look, scowling at his failure.
“None among them is the one you hoped to find?” the younger man asked, exchanging grins with his companion.
“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so.”
“You’re not a man of the river, I see,” the older one said.
Bak caught the inference that he did not know boats; therefore, did not know what he was looking for. He gave the man a cool look. “Don’t underestimate me, old man. I grew up near here. Boats have always been a part of my life.”
The younger fisherman stepped forward, formed a smile.
“If you tell us what you hope to find, sir, we’d be better able to help.”
“Yes, sir,” the older one said, making a too elaborate show of eagerness. “Exactly what did the vessel look like?”
“All I know for a fact was that its hull was dark and weathered,” Bak admitted. From the way the pair looked at him, he could see they thought him less a man than they, for they could without doubt easily distinguish every vessel on the river. “It came upon us from behind and ran us down, sinking my father’s skiff midstream. We were too busy saving ourselves to get more than a glimpse of the boat.”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “Your father? The physician Ptahhotep? We heard of his accident.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Warmth filled the man’s voice. “If not for him, my wife and newborn son would’ve died. A year ago it was, a time I’ll never forget.”
The older man eyed Bak with interest. “You came a few days ago from the southern frontier, they say. You’re trying to stop the accidents at Djeser Djeseru.”
“You’ve heard. .” Bak chuckled. “Of course you have.
You know everything that happens along the river.”
Both men beamed. “Come along, sir,” the older one said,
“We’ve a brew we can share and a patch of shade.”
Bak hated to spend the small amount of time he had in this one location, but he was thirsty and there was a slight chance that, given more information, they might recall something of use. He settled down with them beneath the acacia, beer jar in hand, and told them of the accident and all he remembered of the vessel. Even downwind, the musty-fishy smell was strong, abbreviating his tale.
When he finished, the younger man looked at his companion. “Could be the boat belonging to Pairi and Humay.
There’s a fresh scar on the hull. But why would they wish to run down the physician?” His eyes darted toward Bak. “Or you, sir.”
“Who are Pairi and Humay?” Bak cautioned himself not to let his hopes build too high. Their vessel could as easily have struck a log floating on the water as his father’s skiff.
“Brothers.” The older man busily scratched an itch on his inner thigh. “They usually draw their boat up here when the day’s fishing is over.” His eyes darted toward the row of vessels on the beach and his expression turned thoughtful.
“Strange they’ve not yet come.”
“Their father died several years ago, leaving them a farm,” his friend said. “They’re often the first to bring in their catch so they can get home in time to tend the flocks.
Why, I’m not sure. They’ve a shepherd boy who does the task well enough, so I’ve heard.”
A farm. A place where bees were no doubt cultivated.
Bak’s interest in the tale multiplied tenfold.
“Their boat struck something a couple days ago. No question about it. It left a long gouge down one side of the bow.”
The older man frowned. “Come to think of it, the scar was at about the level where it would’ve struck the stern of a skiff like your father’s.”
“We should’ve paid more heed, wondered more about what happened,” his younger companion said. “They’re not men to have an accident. They’re cautious sailors, careful of their possessions-especially that boat.”
Barely able to believe his good fortune, Bak set his beer jar on the ground by his side. “It wasn’t here the night we were struck?”
After a short argument with his friend about who did what on which evening, the older man concluded, “It wasn’t here when I left. These nets are old-my master’s a stingy swine-and I often stay until close on sunset. And so I did that day.”
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.
Against all odds, he had most likely found the men he sought, not mere fishermen but probably beekeepers as well.
“Are they men who would take what by rights belongs to another?”
The older man chortled. “Wouldn’t every man be tempted if the prize was rich enough?”
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“They toil from dawn to dusk to better themselves, but would they steal?” The younger man shrugged. “Maybe.
Maybe not.”
Bak rose to his feet, preparing to leave. “Can you describe the two of them?”
“Hmmm.” The older man picked up the net he had been repairing and located the tear he had yet to mend. “Pairi’s a big man, broad across the shoulders, taller than you are. His face is square, not much to look at.”
His younger companion chuckled. “His face is as flat as the sole of a leather sandal.”
A flat face. Bak resisted the urge to shout for joy. He owed these two men more than he could ever repay. In addition to their other revelations, they had identified the men who had dropped him into the shaft of Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s tomb.
“Humay looks a lot like his brother,” the older fisherman said, “but he’s not as big and his face is rounder. Kind of like an egg.”
Bak thought of the many places along the river where a boat could be drawn onto the shore and of the time he might waste searching for the vessel when he wanted instead to lay hands on the men. “How can I find their farm?”
Wishing he had Kasaya to back him up, Bak hurried along a narrow path raised above the fields on a ridge of dirt cleaned out of the dry irrigation ditch beside it. The farm ahead looked to be small like his father’s, but the house needed whitewash, and the two mudbrick sheds were in an advanced stage of decay, their walls partly fallen down. A large flock of sheep and goats grazed on the scant remains of harvested crops in the field to the east. A boy of eight or nine years sat in the shade of a clump of tamarisks, keeping an eye on the animals and watching Bak. The yellow dog beside him rose to its feet and barked, but grew silent at a sharp command from its master. A donkey grazed nearby unconcerned.
A few clumps of vegetation not yet eaten by the voracious animals told him what the harvested crop had been. Clover, a good source of nectar for bees. He saw no hives at the edge of the field, but spotted them on the roof of the house. A large grouping of cylindrical pots held together by dried mud.
Yes! he thought, gratified beyond measure. He had come upon the beekeepers he had sent Kasaya out to find. Beekeepers who were also fishermen and tomb robbers. A few hours’ effort well worthwhile.
He stopped at the edge of the field. Other than the bleating of a lamb lost from its mother and the distant howling of a dog, he heard not a sound. The house ahead looked empty.
Appearances, however, could be deceiving. The fishermen could have seen him approach and recognized him. They might well be lying in wait, hoping to catch him unaware.
Where? The house and sheds stood in the open. From the manure dotting the grass and weeds, Bak guessed the live-stock was allowed to graze where it would. The small garden was surrounded by a wall of sorts, dried acacia branches bristling with needles. He could see through the fence, and the interiors of both sheds stood open to view and empty. He glanced toward the stubble field. Boy and dog had gone in among the animals and were paying him no heed.
Clutching his baton of office as he would a club, he strode to the house. Pausing ten or twelve paces from the door, he called, “Pairi! Humay! I must speak with you.”
He received no answer.
Trying not to step on dry grass that would crunch beneath his sandals, he crept to the door and stopped to listen. All was quiet. He remained where he was, waiting. He heard not a sound. Tamping down his impatience, he counted out the moments as a woman would do when awaiting the birth of a child. Halfway to his goal of two hundred, his patience paid off. He heard a faint rustle just inside and to the right of the door. The noise could have been made by a mouse or a rat-
but he did not think so. He took a silent step forward, bringing him close enough to touch the doorjamb.
He leaped across the threshold. Through eyes unaccustomed to the darkness, he glimpsed a figure where he had expected it to be. He swung half around, knocked something from the man’s hand, and with his free fist struck the man hard in the stomach.
“Oof!” he heard, and the man fell at his feet, dropping spear and shield with a clatter, clutching his stomach. The light from the open door fell on his face.
“Kasaya!” Bak dropped to his knees beside the young Medjay.
“Lieutenant Bak?” Kasaya, his face screwed up in a grimace of pain, heaved his shoulders off the packed earthen floor and sat up. “What are you doing here, sir?”
“Why didn’t you answer when I called out?”
“I didn’t recognize your voice. I didn’t expect you.”
Bak helped the Medjay to his feet and seated him on a stool in the center of the sparsely furnished room. “I might’ve killed you.”
Kasaya gave him a wan smile. “If you’d given me the chance, I’d have brained you with my mace.”
Bak had told his Medjays time and time again that they must not slay suspects before they had a chance to talk.
Kasaya, he saw, had not altogether taken his words to heart.
The young man rubbed his stomach gingerly. “I must warn the other men in our company not to anger you, sir.”
“I expected to fell an enemy, not a friend.” Bak’s smile waned. “Now tell me what brought you to this farm.”
“I met a man at a house of pleasure a short walk south of here. When I showed him the sketch you made, he remembered seeing the fisherman Pairi with such a jar. I came here to ask who’d given it to him. By great good fortune, I stopped first to talk with the boy watching the flocks. He knew of the jars; his mother makes them. Pairi and the 228
Lauren Haney
brother Humay give her fresh fish in exchange for a few newly formed and dried jars. They add the design and return them to her so she can place them in her kiln.”
“What’s she to these men? Sister? Mother?”
“Neither. She dwells on the adjoining farm. The boy’s father died two years ago and he has several younger brothers and sisters. They earn their bread the best way they can. He tends the flocks of Pairi and Humay and in return his family’s flocks graze with theirs.”
Bak looked around the dwelling, which was none too clean and smelled strongly of unwashed bodies and fish. A quick search revealed nothing of value and no clothing. Either the two brothers had taken all they had of value and fled or they lived in squalor with the most meager of possessions.
“Not much to show for the lord Amon alone knows how many years of tomb robbing.”
Kasaya, looking doubtful, eyed the room. “If they’re the robbers, sir, where’s the wealth they’ve been getting in exchange for the ancient jewelry?”
“Perhaps the man we call the malign spirit is keeping it.”
“For them or for himself?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve seen them go out at night.” The boy, wide-eyed with curiosity and excited at such an interesting distraction from his lonely vigil over the animals, rubbed the soft ears of the baby lamb he held in his arms. “The two of them most of the time, but sometimes another man goes with them.”
“What does he look like?” Bak asked.
“He’s taller than they are and not as broad, but otherwise I don’t know. I’m always out here with the animals, too far away to see in the dark.”
“Do they go out often?”
“Not that I’ve seen, sir, but I might’ve been asleep when they left. My dog barks at strangers, not men he knows. Or at jackals or some other predator. Or when a sheep or goat gets itself in trouble.”
“Is there a pattern to their nighttime journeys? For example. .” Bak hesitated, not wishing to put thoughts into the boy’s heart. “Do they leave early or late? Do they go often or seldom? A day at a time or several days in a row?”
The boy set the lamb beside its mother and scratched his bony chest, thinking. “They usually go not long after darkness falls, during nights when the moon isn’t very bright.
Sometimes they go several nights in a row with a long gap until the next time, and sometimes they just go. No pa
ttern that I can see.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
“No, sir. They left early this morning, as they always do, and I haven’t seen them since.”
After a few more questions that led nowhere, Bak thanked the boy with a plaster-covered wooden token, which his mother could take to the local garrison quartermaster and exchange for grain or some other item she needed. He and Kasaya headed toward the river and Ptahhotep’s skiff.
“Someone-our malign spirit, I suspect-finds the tomb,”
Bak said to Kasaya, “and these two, possibly the three of them, dig it out.”
“And Imen, while still he lived, watched to see that no one stumbled upon them in the night.”
Bak nodded. “Once they’ve dug their way in, they take a night or two to clean the sepulcher of all its valuables. That done, they close the mouth of the shaft to deceive the guards who patrol the cemeteries.”
“I’d not be surprised to learn that Pairi and Humay have gone for good.” Kasaya’s brow furrowed. “Or have they been slain as Imen was?”
“If I trod in their sandals, I’d have fled the instant I learned of Imen’s death.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Well done, Lieutenant. You’ve accomplished in a week what that guard lieutenant-What’s his name? Menna?-
has been unable to do in more months than I can guess.”
“Yes, sir. Now all we have to do is snare them.”
“You can leave that to me.” Maiherperi snapped his fingers and beckoned. A young officer who had been talking with several scribes at the back of the room hastened to the dais. The commander sent him off to summon the head of the garrison at Waset. “Or, rather, to my colleague Commander Ahmose. Within the hour he can have soldiers across the river watching the farm and send out couriers to have the boat stopped should Pairi and Humay travel beyond the borders of this province. At first light tomorrow he’ll have men on the river searching for their boat nearer to home.”
Bak nodded, well satisfied. He had hurried directly to Waset after leaving the farm of Pairi and Humay, thinking to relate his tale to a man with far more authority than he. Unable to reach Amonked, he had come to the commander. The decision had been a good one. Maiherperi was a man who wasted no time in setting in motion what had to be done.
