by Lauren Haney
Soon the two men were standing together, talking. Bak had no way of knowing what they were saying and could not approach lest he draw attention to himself. Their conversa tion was short and, if appearance did not deceive, quickly grew heated, with the swarthy stranger often shaking his head in denial. The redhead’s face grew florid from anger, he snapped out a final remark and hurried away.
Bak hesitated, wondering if he should follow, seeking a reason to do so. Other than the furtiveness of Meryamon’s behavior, none of these men’s actions were suspect, nor could he tie their activities in any way to Woserhet’s death.
Still, he was curious.
Bidding farewell to his Medjays, he followed the redhead to a circle of men and women urging on two wrestlers and from there to an archery contest. Nothing of note occurred at either match, and he was sorely tempted to drop the pursuit.
Except his quarry continually looked around as if he ex pected-or at least hoped-to meet someone else. Then again, he might simply be enjoying the festivities.
The lord Re was sinking toward the western horizon and the red-haired man weaving a path through the throng, head ing back toward Ipet-resyt, when Bak spotted Amonked standing in a small circle of spectators, watching a dozen desert dwellers perform a synchronized leaping dance to the hard, fast beat of a drum. The redhead stopped to watch a nearby group of female dancers, so Bak slipped up beside the Storekeeper of Amon.
“I’ve never seen such a wondrous crowd,” Amonked said.
“If my cousin could see the abundance of people, the joy on their faces, she’d be most pleased.”
“I thank the gods that I’m a mere servant, not the child of a deity. I can well imagine what she and Menkheperre Thut mose will endure inside the god’s mansion. The near dark ness. The air stifling hot and reeking of incense, burning oil, and food offerings. A never-ending murmur of prayers.
Bruised knees and an aching back from bending low before the lord Amon for hours at a time.”
“The lord Amon is a most beneficent god, my young friend. Serving him can get tedious, but one must put aside one’s physical discomforts and let piety enter one’s heart.”
Bak gave him a sharp look, but found neither censure in his demeanor nor cynicism.
The red-haired man strolled away from the dancers. Bak felt compelled to follow, and Amonked, he had learned some months earlier, could ofttimes be torn from his staid exis tence. “I’ve been following a man for no good purpose.
Would you care to join me?”
“I don’t think…” Amonked eyed askance the many peo ple circulating around them. “Well, yes. Yes I would. But in this crowd? How is that possible?”
“Come. I’ll show you.” Bak pointed at the redhead, who was sauntering past a row of booths offering bright amulets and trinkets, mementos of the festival. “You see the man with fuzzy red hair? Not one in a thousand has hair so con spicuous. He’s not tall, so it’s easy to lose sight of him, but a diligent search will never fail to reward you with another glimpse.”
“Let’s hurry,” Amonked said, leaping into the spirit of the chase. “We don’t want to lose him.”
Grinning, Bak motioned the older man to precede him.
Amonked took the game seriously, seldom taking his eyes off the man ahead. Of equal import, he was not one to draw attention to himself and, in spite of the fine jewelry and wig he wore, readily merged into the crowd.
Their quarry led them into a smaller, more festive version of Waset’s foreign quarter. Here, the food offered for sale looked and smelled and tasted different from the usual fare of Kemet. The entertainers wore unfamiliar costumes; the music was more strident with an unusual beat and timbre.
The games and sports were similar, but differed in rules and manner of play. Many of the people strolling through the area were foreigners, men and women from far to the north and south, the east and west, strangely garbed, often odd in appearance, speaking words impossible to understand.
The red-haired man stopped behind a semicircle of people watching a troupe of Hittite acrobats performing to the beat of a single drum. One man was climbing a pyramid of stand ing men to take his position at the top. The redhead studied the spectators, then headed purposefully in among them to stop beside a short, dumpy man wearing the long kilt of a scribe.
“Do you know the man beside him?” The question was foolish, Bak knew. Hundreds of scribes daily walked the streets of Waset, and hundreds more had come from throughout the land of Kemet to participate in the festival.
However, Amonked had surprised him before and would again with the vast amount of knowledge stored within his heart.
The beat of the drum swelled to a climax. The acrobat reached the top of the human pyramid and stood erect. The crowd roared approval.
“He’s called Nebamon,” Amonked said. “He’s overseer of a block of storehouses in the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, in cluding the storage magazine in which Woserhet was slain.
He’s responsible for many of the valuable supplies and ob jects used during the rituals: aromatic oils, fine linens, bronze and gold vessels.”
“The same items handed over to the priests by Merya mon.”
“Those and many more.” Amonked poked a stray lock of his own hair back beneath his wig. “Nebamon’s task is more wide-ranging and on a higher level of authority. He receives items shipped to Waset from throughout the land of Kemet and oversees their distribution.” Amonked stared hard at the redhead and the scribe. “Are they talking, or did our red haired friend just happen to stand beside him?”
Bak shrugged. “I can’t tell. Men who speak together usu ally make gestures, and I haven’t seen any.” Nor had he seen a message being passed from hand to hand.
The acrobats broke formation. A servant approached with a tall, wide-mouthed jar containing an efflorescence of lit torches. Each of the performers grabbed two. Holding them high, they began to dance, whirling round and round to the ever faster beat of the drum in a frenzy of flying braids and sparks.
Bak’s eyes drifted over the watching men and women, paused on a man standing slightly off to the right. “Speaking of Meryamon, there he is.”
The priest stood at the end of the semicircle, watching the acrobats, seemingly indifferent to any other person or activ ity. From where he stood, he might or might not have spot ted Bak and Amonked, but he could not have failed to see
Nebamon and the red-haired man. Yet his face revealed no hint of recognition.
Was this another furtive act? Or had the young priest seen the other men when first they had joined the spectators and dismissed them from his thoughts? Had following the red haired man been an exercise and no more? Or had some im portant act occurred that Bak had failed to recognize for what it was?
Fresh hordes of spectators flowed in among the onlookers and around the nearby booths and performers. The cere mony inside the sacred precinct had ended. Offering ritual
completed, the lord Amon and his mortal daughter and son would have entered Ipet-resyt, leaving the spectators free to eat and play through the remainder of the day and far into the night.
Amonked grabbed Bak’s arm to draw him close and shouted in his ear that his wife would soon be free to return home and he had promised to meet her there. Bak bade him good-bye. When he turned around, the flood of humanity had swept away the men he had been watching.
“I don’t like it.” Commandant Thuty scowled at the hot, red coals lying in the mudbrick hearth Bak’s Medjays had built in the courtyard.
“The dead auditor?” Nebwa asked. “Seems simple enough. He learned something to someone’s discredit and that someone slew him.”
No longer hungry, but tantalized by the rich smell of fowl and onions and herbs, Bak reached into the large pot setting on the coals and withdrew a piece of well-cooked goose, a feast bestowed upon them by the lord Amon to celebrate the opening day of the Beautiful Feast of Opet. This and other foods richer and more luxurious than their usual fare had been given them d
uring the reversion of offerings, the task
Woserhet would have performed if he had been allowed to live.
“Someone must lay hands on his slayer,” he said, “and
Amonked trusts me to do the best I can.”
Thuty transferred his frown from the fire to Bak.
“Amonked knows, Lieutenant, that you never fail to accept the challenge when faced with a crime and an unknown criminal. And he likes you. He provides you with murdered men as a shepherd provides his flock with grass.”
“Bak’s probably the one man he knows who hasn’t be friended him because he’s cousin to our sovereign.” Nebwa spat on the hard-packed earthen floor, showing his contempt for men who hoped to gain through another man’s position.
Knucklebones rattled across the floor. The Medjay who had thrown snarled a curse and the three men playing with him burst into laughter. A man called out a bet. Another re sponded and another. Bak looked their way, smiled. The torch mounted on the wall flickered in the light breeze, mak ing their features appear ill-formed and indistinct, but he knew each as well as he would know a brother.
From the day his men had set foot in Buhen, until the day they left, throughout the voyage north he had been told, and here in their temporary quarters, the game had never ceased.
Their bets were small, their enjoyment large, so he refused to interfere. Two had been assigned to guard the dwelling and their belongings, but why the other two remained when they could be out making merry, he could not imagine.
Imsiba laid a hand on the thick neck of the large, floppy eared white dog curled up against his thigh, a cur Hori had long ago adopted. “Do you fear Amonked will steal Bak from us, sir?”
Growling an affirmative, Thuty picked up his beer jar, took a deep drink, set it down with a thud. “This is the sec ond murder he’s asked him to investigate since he arrived in the capital. Waset has plenty of police officers. Surely one of them would serve equally well.”
“Bak has a talent few men have.” Nebwa tore a chunk from a thin round loaf of bread, dipped it in the stew. “But that’s of no import. We can’t let him stay here when we jour ney on to Mennufer.”
“Would you two stop speaking of me as if I’m that dog…” Irritated, he glanced at Hori’s pet. “… unable to understand a word you’re saying. I will snare the man who slew Woserhet, and I will go with you to Mennufer.” To close the subject, he plucked another piece of goose from the pot and took a bite off the bone.
“Can I help you search for the slayer, my friend?” Imsiba asked.
“How can you? Your wife has yet to find a new ship.”
“You know very well that the captain of the vessel we left behind in Abu is here with us. As he expects to command her new one, he has much to gain by offering sound advice. I go with them to the harbor only because she wishes me to.”
“As much as I’d like your help, you must stand by her side until she finds a suitable vessel. Pashenuro and Psuro can take temporary charge of our men.”
“You must promise to summon me should you need me.”
“Never fear, Imsiba, but as of now I can see no purpose in dragging you along with me. Today the murder seems im possible to solve, but tomorrow, when I talk to men who knew of Woserhet’s mission, the reason for his death may be revealed and the name of the slayer as well.”
Chapter Five
“Hapuseneb has been told of Woserhet’s death.” Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, a young man as free of hair as a melon, wore across his chest the sash of a lector priest.
“He’s very upset, Lieutenant. I can’t tell you how strongly he feels that the man who slew him must be snared and pun ished as quickly as possible.”
The priest, with Bak at his side, walked slowly down the narrow lane toward the multitude of buildings that formed the house of life, the primary center of priestly learning in the land of Kemet. The lord Khepre reached into the lane, turning the plastered walls a blinding white and heating the earth upon which they trod. The second day of the festival promised to be as hot as the first. Soft voices could some times be heard beyond the doorways to either side, but in general, silence and peace reigned.
Bak tried not to show his annoyance. The last thing he needed was the chief priest adding to the burden Amonked had already placed on his shoulders. “To do so, I need to know more of his activities.”
“Ask what you will.” The young priest stepped over a yel low dog sunning itself in front of a door. “I can’t promise to give you the answers you need, for I’ve been told close to nothing. I’ll do the best I can.”
“Mistress Ashayet, Woserhet’s wife, had no idea what he’s been doing-evidently he seldom spoke of his task but she said he’d been troubled for several days. Can you tell me why?”
“All I know is what he told Hapuseneb: he’d found some discrepancies in the records of the storehouses of the lord
Amon. What they were, he didn’t say, evidently wishing to be more certain before he pointed a finger.”
Bak grimaced. He had hoped for more. “Were the store houses here in Waset or in some other city?”
“Here, I believe, but of that I’m not certain. You must speak to his scribe, a man named Tati.”
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
Bak made his slow way down the narrow, meandering lane, counting the open doorways as he stepped over a cry ing baby, sidled around donkeys and several women barring the path while they argued, and stopped to allow a pack of snarling dogs to race around him. Crowding in to either side were the walls of small, single-story interconnected houses from which grimy white plaster flaked. The lane, untouched by the early morning sun, smelled of manure, rancid oil, un washed humanity, and, strangely enough, of flowers. The poor of the city loved the delicate beauty of the blooming plants they had neither the space nor the leisure to grow and, during the reversion of offerings, would ofttimes choose blossoms over food.
This and several neighboring building blocks, though less than two hundred paces from the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, seemed a world away. According to the chief priest’s aide,
Woserhet and his scribe and workmen had been given a house here for that very reason. In this private place, with no one the wiser, the lord Amon’s servants could dwell on the premises, the auditor could study untroubled the documents they had taken from the storehouses, and they could keep their records.
Bak reached the twelfth doorway on his right and walked inside. The main room was fairly large, an irregular rectan 70
Lauren Haney gle with the wall to the right longer than the opposing wall.
Two rooms opened off to the left. Light and fresh air entered through high windows at the back. A quick glance told him this was the dwelling he sought. Rather than a loom or signs of other household industry, he saw sleeping pallets rolled up along one wall and several small woven reed chests and baskets containing personal belongings.
Footsteps sounded, drawing his eyes to a short, squat, and muscular man descending the mudbrick stairway built against the rear wall. “Who are you?” the man demanded.
Bak gave his name and title, saying he represented
Amonked. “And you are…?”
“You’ll be looking for Tati.” The man dropped off the bot tom step and pointed upward. “He’s on the roof, sir. He’s ex pecting you. Or someone like you.”
He looked no different from any other workman in the land of Kemet and wore the same skimpy kilt, but he spoke with the accent of the people of the western desert and car ried the brand of a prisoner on his right shoulder. Bak guessed he had been taken in a border skirmish and offered by Maatkare Hatshepsut to the lord Amon in gratitude for the victory. “You’ve been told of Woserhet’s death?”
“We have,” the workman nodded. “May the gods take him unto themselves and may the one who slew him burn through eternity.”
Bak was not quite sure what family of gods had given birth to the words, but he could see the sentiment was heart felt. �
��You liked him, I see.” He smiled, hoping to draw the man out.
“He could be as sour as an unripe persimmon, but he was always fair and made no unreasonable demands.” The work man hesitated, then blurted, “What’ll happen to us now, sir?
Has anyone said?”
“With so many men in authority participating in the Beau tiful Feast of Opet, I doubt if a decision has been made.”
The workman nodded in mute and unhappy understand ing.
Bak headed up the stairs. He sympathized with this man and the others. As servants of the lord Amon, their fate rested in other men’s hands. The scribe would probably be kept at
Ipet-isut or be sent to another god’s mansion, but the odds were weighted heavily that the four workmen would be taken to one of the lord Amon’s many estates to toil in the fields.
At the top of the stairs, a long expanse of white rooftop baked in the morning sun, with no line marking where one dwelling ended and another began. A half-dozen spindly pavilions had been erected to expand the living and work space of the houses below. North-facing airshafts projected here and there, and stairways led downward to each home.
Lines had been strung from which dangled strips of drying meat or newly dyed thread or yarn. Fish lay spread out to dry. Sun-baked dung had been piled in neat mounds for use as fuel; hay was spread in loose piles; baskets, tools, and pottery lay where they had been dropped.
Beneath a rough pavilion roofed with palm fronds, he found a small, elderly man seated cross-legged on the rooftop. His upper back was so stooped his head projected from between his shoulders like a turtle peering out from its shell. His brand, different from that of the workman, had faded, speaking of many long years as a servant.
“You must be Tati,” Bak said.
“Yes, sir.”
The scribe motioned him to sit in the shade. While Bak explained who he was and why he had come, Tati made a tiny mark on the scroll spread across his lap and another on the limestone flake on the roof beside him. Noting the cu riosity on Bak’s face, he explained, “The scroll contains the official list of all the faience statuettes and dishes thought to be in a storage magazine we inspected last week. The shard shows all we found.”
