by Lauren Haney
“Tripped!” Meret looked dismayed. “The floor in the ser vants’ quarters is perfectly smooth, and all obstacles were placed against the walls. What could he have stumbled over?”
“His feet, I suspect.”
She shot an apologetic glance at Bak. “I fear I must leave you, Lieutenant. I may not return before you go, but do come again. We have more to talk about than I ever thought possible.”
He gave her his most charming smile. “I’ll see you an other time, that I vow.”
“You like her, I see.” Bak’s father, the physician Ptah hotep, leaned against the mudbrick wall of the paddock and looked with interest upon his son.
Bak poured two heavy jars of water into the trough and stepped back. Victory and Defender, the fine black chariot horses he had been unwilling to part with when he had been exiled to the southern frontier, paid no heed. They had drunk their fill from the first jarful he had carried from the over flowing irrigation channel outside the paddock.
“She seems not at all like her sister. I thank the lord
Amon. If I’d found her to be manipulative, I’d have greeted her and no more.”
“Amonked wouldn’t do that to you.” Ptahhotep’s features were much like those of his son and he was of a similar height and breadth. The years had softened his muscles and turned the brown of his eyes to a deep gold, but no one could have thought him other than the younger man’s sire. “Would you make a match with her?”
Bak knew Ptahhotep hoped to see him settle down with wife and family. “How can I say? I must spend more time with her, get to know her. But first, I must lay hands on the man who slew Woserhet.”
Chapter Six
“Were you aware that Woserhet was an auditor?” Bak dropped onto the single free stool in the workshop, a rough cut rectangular affair made for straddling.
“Yes, sir.” On the floor beside his leg, Meryamon laid the long, delicate censer, shaped like an arm with an open hand at the end, that he had been inspecting. Newly polished, the gold it was made from glistened in the light like the flesh of the lord Re.
“Why didn’t you say?”
Meryamon flushed, then glanced surreptitiously at the half-dozen men scattered along the lean-to that shaded two sides of the open court. A warm breeze rustled the palm fronds spread atop the shelter. Surrounded by ritual imple ments, they were cleaning and buffing bronze and gold and precious inlays for use during this and the eight remaining days of the Opet festival. Unseen craftsmen in another part of the building could be heard hammering metal. The young priest sat cross-legged on a reed mat, surrounded by objects given him for inspection. Many were outstanding examples of the metalsmith’s craft.
“I guess I was too surprised to hear he’d been given the re sponsibility for the reversion of offerings. I had no idea he was so highly thought of.”
“Were you not told that he reported to no less a man than the chief priest?”
“I knew Hapuseneb sent him, but I thought the audit rou tine.”
Had it been routine? Bak did not know. Nor had Ptahmes been able to tell him. The aide had assumed so, at least at the beginning, but when Bak had found him in the house of life not an hour ago, before the long arm of the lord Khepre could reach into the sacred precinct, he had said, “Ha puseneb is a wily old bird; he may’ve sensed a transgression within the storehouses and brought Woserhet here without telling even him of his suspicions.”
Unfortunately, Woserhet had repeated the same mistake with his scribe Tati, telling him nothing, letting him search with his eyes blinded by lack of knowledge.
Irked at the thought, Bak asked Meryamon, “How often did you have occasion to speak with him?”
The priest shrugged. “Two or three times at most. A greet ing usually and not much else.”
“What was your impression of him?”
Another shrug, and the closed expression of a man un willing to commit himself.
Sighing inwardly, Bak wiped a film of sweat from his forehead. “Surely you thought something about him.”
The priest studied his foot, refusing to meet Bak’s eyes.
“The sacred precinct is like a village, sir. People talk and you can’t help listening. Listening and being influenced.”
Bak felt as if he were pulling an arrow driven deep within a wooden target. The man would offer nothing without it be ing dragged from him. “From what you heard, Meryamon, what did you conclude about him?”
“They said he was a plodder, a man who searched out mi nor errors like a bee eater seeks a hive, and he wouldn’t let rest the least significant matter until someone wasted the time it took to resolve the problem.”
“Is that what you saw the few times you spoke with him?”
The priest’s eyes darted toward Bak and away. A reddish stain washed up his face. “I thought it best to have as little to do with him as possible.”
Bak muttered an oath beneath his breath. Meryamon had no spine whatsoever-or so he appeared. He had managed to convince someone in authority that he was responsible enough to see that the priests were provided with the proper supplies and equipment for the various rituals. A demanding task he must be performing well or he would not be here.
Bak picked up a tall, thin, spouted libation jar. Made of gold and polished to a high sheen, it surpassed in beauty all the other objects scattered around the priest. “This was kept in the storehouse where Woserhet was found?”
Meryamon eyed the jar as if he feared the officer would drop it, marring its perfection. “Behind the records room, yes.”
“So if the building had burned, this and all the other ritual objects except those being used in the procession would’ve burned with it.” Thanking the lord Amon that such had not been the case, Bak returned the jar to the spot from which he had taken it. Such a loss would have been an abomination.
“All that remained inside would’ve been destroyed, yes, but these were safe. As is the custom, I’d gone to the store house the day before and removed everything the priests will use throughout the festival.” Meryamon gestured toward the men toiling beneath the lean-to. “The ritual implements will be used time and time again until the lord Amon returns to his northern mansion. They’re cleaned after each use.”
Bak looked at the men and the precious objects scattered around them. Many had been crafted of gold, a few of the much rarer metal silver, others of bronze or faience or glass. Each a work of art. Objects considered by User to be of insignificant value when compared to those stored in the treasury.
“Where do you keep them when they’re not in the store house?”
“Here. In this building. It’s safer than carrying them back and forth.” Meryamon smiled. “Never fear, sir. They’re well cared for.”
A short, fleshy servant seated beneath the lean-to spat out an oath and scrambled to his feet, swatting at something too small to see, a flying insect of some kind. His fellows laughed-until the tiny assailant moved on to fly around their heads. Spitting curses, a few men waved the creature off while the remainder covered their heads with their arms.
Finally, an older, thinner man slapped the back of his neck and chortled success. Laughing at themselves, the men re turned to their task.
Bak stood up, prepared to leave. As if an afterthought, he said, “Oh yes, I meant to ask you. The day the lord Amon traveled to Ipet-resyt, I saw you walking south along the processional way. You were with a red-haired man. I thought to join you, but lost you in the crowd. I once knew a man of similar appearance, but don’t remember his name. I wonder if your friend is the one I knew.”
A frown so slight Bak almost missed it touched Merya mon’s face; he paused an instant to think. His eyes met
Bak’s and he spoke with the candor of an honest man. “I may’ve talked with such an individual, but I don’t recall do ing so.”
Bak left the workshop, convinced Meryamon had lied.
Why tell a falsehood over a trivial matter? Or was it trivial?
What message had
the shard contained? Had it in some way related to Woserhet’s death?
He thought of the beautiful and valuable objects he had seen in the workshop. User might not believe them worthy of stealing, but to him-and no doubt to Meryamon as well-they were of greater value than anything he could hope to attain in a lifetime. Even when melted down and im possible to identify, as the objects would have to be in order to be disposed of in the land of Kemet, their value would be awesome.
Another telling fact to Bak’s way of thinking: Meryamon had been the first man at the scene of the murder. He had raised the alarm in plenty of time to save the storage maga zine and the valuable objects that had remained within, but had not summoned help until after many of the scrolls strewn around the body had burned. If he had been stealing from the storehouse, he would certainly know which docu ments might incriminate him.
“I didn’t hear of Woserhet’s death until yesterday morn ing.” Nebamon, overseer of the block of storehouses in which Woserhet had died, glared blame at the elderly scribe at his side. “Before I could come to Ipet-isut to look into the matter, one of the scribal overseers at Ipet-resyt fell ill and I was pressed into taking his place. There went the day.”
Bak broke the seal and swung open the door of the small room where Woserhet had been slain. “Stay near the en trance. I’m not satisfied I’ve learned all I can from this place.”
The overseer grunted acknowledgment and stepped across the threshold. His scribe followed, holding aloft a flaming short-handled torch to illuminate as much of the room as possible. Bak remained outside but watched them closely to be sure they disturbed nothing.
“Hmmm.” In the wavering light of the torch, Nebamon studied the chamber. Some men might have considered his appearance amusing, men who failed to notice how serious his demeanor was. He had a short and pudgy body, a three quarter circle of curly white hair, and bushy white eyebrows.
“The floor will need to be cleaned and the walls and ceiling repainted to cover the soot, but the damage appears to be minimal.”
“The guards were quick to act. They feared the roof would catch fire and it would spread to other magazines.”
“I’ll see their swift action is rewarded. I’m convinced they averted a catastrophe.” Nebamon shuddered. “With so few men nearby to fight a conflagration, it could’ve spread all through the sacred precinct.”
Bak thought of the multitudes standing outside the enclo sure wall, watching the procession. He was certain every man among them would have come running. “You knew of
Woserhet’s task, I’ve been told.”
“User told us.” The overseer turned to leave the building, and his scribe followed.
“Did you keep a close watch on what he was doing?”
“Close enough.” Nebamon stepped up to a ladder leaning against the front of the building and placed a foot on the lowest rung. “From what I saw inside, I doubt the roof suf fered damage, but I must look nonetheless. Will you come with me, Lieutenant?”
Bak followed him upward, while the scribe remained be hind. A large flock of pigeons, caught sunning themselves in the warm glow of the lord Khepre, took flight as the men climbed onto the roof. The vaults of the long row of inter connected storage magazines formed a series of half cylin ders butted together side by side. The smooth white plaster surface was mottled by bird droppings, and windblown dirt and sand filled the depressions between the ridges.
“You followed his progress from one storage magazine to another?” Bak asked.
“As long as he was examining this storage block, yes.”
Nebamon knelt on the ridge at a spot Bak judged to be di rectly above the area where the fire had been the hottest. The overseer drew a knife from the sheath at his belt and began to dig a hole in the plaster and the mudbrick beneath. “He finished with us over a week ago, apparently satisfied, and went on to another block. I was surprised to hear he’d come back. What was he doing here, Lieutenant? Do you know?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The overseer gave him a startled look. “Are you saying he told no one?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“It never pays to be too secretive. Never.”
Shaking his head to reinforce the thought, Nebamon dug deeper. He studied the hole as he excavated, searching for signs that the fire had crept through the straw mixed into the mud when the bricks were made. “You know, of course, that these storehouses are filled with valuables. Not merely ritual vessels but cult statues, amulets carved or molded of pre cious stones and metals, aromatic oils, incense, objects brought from far-off lands to adorn the god, the sacred shrine, the sacred barque.”
“Meryamon mentioned only objects used in the rituals.
Does he know of the other items?”
“He should. He comes here daily.”
Kneeling beside the overseer, Bak picked up a small chunk dug from the rooftop and crumbled it with his fingers.
The straw was brittle and dry but unburned. The dried mud was brown, not the red of burned brick. “Would he have an opportunity to steal?”
Nebamon’s eyes narrowed. “Meryamon? What gave you that idea?”
“I’m asking, that’s all.”
“I suppose he could steal an item or two, but why would he? He has a position few men attain at such a young age. A man would have to’ve lost his wits to risk so much.” The overseer moved to the hollow between the ridges and again dropped to his knees. “If anything had been missing, I’m confident Woserhet would’ve discovered the loss. He and his servants were very thorough. I watched them. They counted every object.”
“You respected him, I see.”
“He could be irksome at times.” Nebamon, brushing the sand from the hollow, looked up and smiled. “As are all au ditors.” Sobering, he said. “He had a task to do and he did it well. He was slow and careful and precise, as wary of mak ing a wrong accusation as he was of overlooking an offense against the lord Amon. I can’t fault him for that, now can I?”
“I’ve heard he wasn’t well liked.”
“I suppose a few men resented him, feeling he was prying-and he was. But we’re all men of experience. He’s not the first auditor we’ve met, nor will he be the last.”
Bak appreciated the overseer’s attitude, a man who ac cepted the bad with the good, making no special fuss. “What can you tell me of Meryamon?”
“We’re back to him, uh?” Nebamon grinned at Bak, then began to dig another hole. “He seems a likable enough young man.”
“I seek something more specific,” Bak said, returning the smile. “Where, for example, did he come from?”
“Somewhere to the north. Gebtu? Abedju? Ipu? That gen eral area.”
Some distance away, several days’ journey at best. No easy way of narrowing that down without asking Meryamon himself. “His task requires a man of trust and dependability.
To attain such a post, he must’ve come from a family of posi tion and wealth. Or some man of influence befriended him.”
Nebamon took a cloth from his belt and wiped the sweat from his face. “I’ve heard a provincial governor spoke up for him, but who that worthy man was, I don’t recall. If ever I was told his name.”
Vowing to dig deeper into Meryamon’s past, Bak watched the pigeons circle around and settle on the far side of the roof, their soft cooing carrying on the air. “I saw you two days ago after the procession entered Ipet-resyt, watching a troupe of Hittite acrobats. Standing beside you was a red haired man.” He disliked deceiving so likable and industri ous an individual, but the ploy had satisfied Meryamon, so why not use it again? “Many years ago, I knew someone who looked very much like him, but I don’t recall his name.
I wonder if he could be the man I knew?”
The overseer looked up from his small excavation. “I talked to dozens of people that day: friends, acquaintances, strangers.” He broke apart a lump of dried mud and studied the straw embedded inside. Nodding his satisfaction, he rose to
his feet. “The roof appears undamaged. I’ll send a man up here to fill the holes and replaster, and it’ll be as good as new.”
As they walked together to the ladder, Bak asked, “Do you by chance remember the redhead? If I bump into him during the festival, I’d like to be able to call him by name.”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about. How can I recall one of so many?”
Was he telling the truth? Bak liked the overseer and thought him honest-at least he hoped he was. However, he could not deceive himself. As overseer of the storage block,
Nebamon had unrestrained access and was less likely to be watched closely by those in attendance than was Merya mon. Also, he was responsible not only for storing the items, but for receiving them from far and wide and distrib uting them elsewhere. To where? Bak wondered. Amonked had not explained.
Bak left the lovely limestone court in front of Ipet-isut and walked south to the partially completed gate. The sun struck pavement was so hot he could feel the warmth through the soles of his sandals. Striding through the gate, he paused at the low end of the construction ramps and looked south along the processional way toward the first barque sanctuary. There, just two days earlier, he had stood with his men, awaiting their dual sovereigns and the sacred triad.
The unfinished gate towers stood sadly neglected, the workmen released to enjoy the festival. A dozen boys, none more than ten years of age, were towing a large empty sledge up the ramp built against the east tower. One shouted out commands, pretending to be an overseer slapping his thigh with a stick, a make-believe baton of authority. The rest struggled mightily to pull the heavy vehicle. What they meant to do with the sledge when they reached the top, Bak dared not imagine.
On an impulse, he decided to climb the west ramp, bare and unoccupied except for a sledge laden with facing stones.
