by Lauren Haney
He carefully brushed away the upper surface of dirt about a pace to the right of the spot where the body had been dragged into the weeds. He found blood. Here, too, the slayer had thrown dirt, thinking to hide all signs of the mur der-and his own footprints as well.
Bak swept away more dirt, following the trail of blood.
Although trampled by those who had come since the mur der, the track was clear enough, and soon he reached a spot directly in front of the chapel. A small brownish stain at the lower edge of the cloth told him he had guessed right. He brushed away more dirt and found a much disturbed puddle of dried blood that had flowed beneath the cloth and into the shelter. Pushing aside the cover, he revealed the relief in a niche. On both sides of the windowlike frame were the large, deeply carved ears of the lord Amon. Here, any man or woman great or small could come in times of need to pray to the god or to seek aid.
Visited by many through the course of a day, this would have been a risky place to slay a man. It was, however, iso lated and hidden from the general view, making it an ideal place to commit so heinous a crime at sunset when people were eating their evening meal and preparing for the night, or early in the morning before they began to stir.
He let the cloth fall into place and joined the others.
“Bring him out to the path. I need a better, closer look.”
Psuro nodded to the two Medjays, who carried a litter into the weeds. While they rolled the body onto it and brought it back, Bak questioned the young man who had found Merya mon. He had seen a woman and child bending a knee before the shrine and no one else. The wilted vegetation had caught his attention and the many flies had drawn his eyes to the body. He had realized right away that the blood was dry, that
Meryamon had been dead for some time. He had sent the woman for help and that’s all he knew.
Bak allowed him to leave and turned to the body. He ran his fingers through Meryamon’s hair and detected no bump or blood. He rolled him one way and then the other and found no bruises or cuts. The priest must have been down on his knees, praying to the god, when his assailant came up be hind him and slit his throat. It had probably happened so fast that he had felt nothing, simply toppled over. Not wanting him found too quickly, the slayer had pulled him into the weeds and hastily thrown dirt around, hiding him temporar ily from all but the most inquisitive.
Glancing at the chapel, Bak imagined the deeply carved image of the lord Amon, listening to Meryamon speak, pos sibly plead for… For what? What had the priest needed or desired? Had he known Woserhet’s slayer and asked for advice or absolution? Had he feared his life would be taken by the same hand? Whatever his need, the god had failed him.
Bak whisked the flies away from the wound with the twig. The insects swarmed upward. Swallowing his distaste, he took a closer look at the dead man’s neck. He muttered an oath. He had seen a similar cut before, not once but twice.
“Take him away,” he told Psuro. “To the house of death.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I must speak with Hori.”
“I’ll send a man for him.”
The sergeant, followed by the Medjays carrying the litter, hastened down the path and vanished around the corner of
Ipet-isut. Bak and Amonked followed at a slower pace.
Bak flung his makeshift brush into the weeds and wiped his hands together as if ridding them of the feel of death.
“The Hittite merchant Maruwa was slain in the same way as
Meryamon and Woserhet, and by the same man.”
“Are you certain?” Amonked asked, caught by surprise.
“I’d wager my iron dagger that they were.” Iron was a metal more rare than silver and more valuable than gold, and the dagger had been a gift from the only woman Bak had ever loved. To him, it was priceless, as Amonked knew.
“Two men slain in a similar manner over a short period of time might be a coincidence. Three such occurrences are more likely than not related.”
“I can easily see a connection between Woserhet’s death and that of Meryamon. Each man toiled for the lord Amon and dealt daily with the valuable objects in his storage mag azines. But what of the Hittite?”
“I have no idea,” Bak admitted. “Importing horses for the royal stables is a world removed from the storehouses within the sacred precinct.”
“Meryamon had no family in Waset, so he shared these quarters with several men of similar circumstances who toil here in the sacred precinct.” Bak crossed the threshold, leav ing the small dwelling in which the priest had lived.
Hori stood outside, trying to catch his breath after his speedy journey from the Medjays’ quarters. “How will I know which records were his, sir?”
“They keep no records here.” Bak led the way down the narrow, dusty lane. “Such a thing is frowned upon by the
Overseer of Overseers, who insists that all records remain in the storage blocks or be taken to the central storehouse archives. Also, the house is too small, with no space for any thing but the most personal of items. In Meryamon’s case, clothing, scribal equipment, and a few short letters from his father, a public scribe in Abedju.”
The path they trod was hugged on both sides by small in terconnected buildings that housed servants of the lord
Amon and their families: craftsmen, scribes, bakers and brewers, and innumerable others who performed duties re lated to the well-being of the deity and the priests and scribes who tended to the god’s needs.
Hori half ran to keep up. “Since many of the records
Meryamon kept in the storage block now lie on the roof of our quarters, practically impossible to read, I’ll go to the archives. How far back should I begin?”
“The day he was given his present task. About three years ago, according to the men who shared his dwelling place.”
“I thank the lord Amon he was a young man.” Hori dropped back to follow Bak around a donkey tethered in front of an open doorway. Inside they heard a woman berat ing her husband. “By the time I finish this task, I’ll know the comings and goings of the ritual equipment as well as he did. Maybe better.”
Bak ignored the mild complaint. “While you’re there, ask the scribes if they have any records of dealings between the
Hittite merchant Maruwa and any scribe or priest within the sacred precinct.”
“Why would the lord Amon have need of horses? They’re much too valuable to be used as beasts of burden or for food or to be sacrificed. I know couriers sometimes ride them, but all they’re really good for is to pull a chariot.”
“I’ll not lay down a bet that you’ll find him named,” Bak admitted, “but you must look anyway. And don’t forget the workshop where the objects are cleaned and repaired.
They’ll have records, too.”
“I know no more now than I did the day Maruwa died.”
Lieutenant Karoya eyed the busy market, his expression glum. “I’ve had scant time to give the matter the attention it deserves. My duties during the Beautiful Feast of Opet are many and varied, and the offenses my men detect each day are multiplied ten times ten over those of any ordinary day.”
He raised a hand as if to stave off comment. “I know, sir. I’m making excuses where none should be made.”
Bak ducked out of the way of two men carrying a large rectangular wooden box that looked much like an unadorned coffin. “I can see for myself how many ships lie along the waterfront and how busy this market has become.”
His elbow bumped a wooden support, making the rickety stall beside them rock. Strung beads hanging from a cross beam rattled, earning Bak a scowl from the proprietor, a wrinkled old man who sat on the ground surrounded by his wares: beads and amulets, bracelets and anklets, combs, per fume bottles, and the sticks and brushes used for painting the eyes and lips.
“I wish I had more time. From what little I’ve learned,
Maruwa was a decent man and deserves better.” Karoya’s at tention was focused on three harbor patrolmen standing in t
he middle of the broad pathway between the rows of stalls, questioning a man caught substituting false weights for true.
The miscreant was on his knees, with two patrolmen holding him and one applying a stick to his back and legs. A crowd had begun to form around them, blocking the pathway, forc ing others to watch whether or not they wanted to. The on 118
Lauren Haney lookers talked among themselves, some curious, some com plaining, some thrilled by the small spectacle. A few offered wagers as to exactly how long the scoundrel could hold out before admitting his offense.
Bak queried Karoya with a glance, and the young Medjay officer nodded. Together, they stepped into the open, making themselves visible. Men of authority keeping an eye out for trouble. The crowd seemed mild enough, but like all sponta neous and uncontrolled gatherings, could quickly go out of control.
“Have you learned anything about his activities here in
Waset?” Bak asked.
“Not much.”
“Was he not a regular visitor to the city?”
“He came often enough, once or twice a year. But mer chants come and go. They seldom establish long or deep friendships. Not here at the harbor, at any rate.” Karoya paused, letting a braying donkey have its say. “I wish I could be of more help, sir, but you see how it is.” He swung his arm in an arc encompassing the growing crowd and the noisy activity around them.
Bak sympathized. The waterfront was lined with ships four or five deep and the market was three or four times larger and busier than when last he had seen it. “I’d suggest you go to the garrison for help, but by the time you’ve trained more men, the festival will be over.”
“I’m sorely tempted nonetheless.”
Karoya studied the gathering crowd, the increased bet ting. A resolute look settled on his face and he whistled a signal to his men. They jerked their prisoner to his feet and lowered their spears to a diagonal, the points slightly above head level should they need to force their way through the crowd. Onlookers stepped aside, opening a path, and they half walked, half dragged the rogue to the side lane that led to their building.
The Medjay officer visibly relaxed. “The men I’ve talked with-both sailors and other merchants-all agreed that
Maruwa was good-natured, easy to be with, and was utterly honest in his dealings. As far as they know, he had no woman troubles, no debts, no bad habits.”
“What of Captain Antef’s suggestion that he might’ve been involved in Hittite politics?”
Karoya stepped away from the booth and led the way into the rapidly dispersing crowd. “If he was, either no one knew or no one will speak of it.”
“I assume you’ve talked with Hittites dwelling in Waset?”
“Yes, sir. Well, with one, at any rate. I spoke with a man named Hantawiya, who’s a kind of informal leader among them. He seemed not to like Maruwa very much. I guess the merchant had taken a woman of Kemet as his concubine and it didn’t set well with Hantawiya, but he could find nothing bad to say about him.” Karoya smiled, remembering. “I could see he wanted to.”
Bak stepped hastily around a woman carrying a large basket of coarsely ground flour. She reeked of sweat and a harsh perfume. He was not convinced one man’s opinion of another was in any way satisfactory. “He made no connec tion between Maruwa and the sacred precinct of the lord
Amon?”
“The subject never arose, and I’m certain it would’ve if
Hantawiya had suspected such a thing. He’s the kind of man who seeks reasons for disapproval, and he’d certainly not condone one of his countrymen getting involved with a god of any land but that of Hatti.”
“He sounds a disagreeable sort.”
“He is.” Karoya sidled past a mound of greenish melons displayed on the ground. “I can’t believe Maruwa’s murder is connected to those in the sacred precinct, yet your de scription of the men’s throats…” He shook his head, obvi ously mystified. “What in the name of the lord Amon can the connection be?”
“I can’t say I knew Maruwa well, but I enjoyed his com pany, respected him. I suppose I thought of him as a friend.”
Commander Minnakht, master of the royal stables, walked beneath the portico that shaded a long line of open door ways, from which came the strong smell of horses. The thud of hooves, the rustle of hay, an animal’s soft nickering could be heard within. “He seemed a fine man, and I mourn his death.”
“Did he speak of other men he provided with horses?”
Bak asked. Each time he inhaled the rich smell of the stable, a twinge of homesickness touched his heart. Most of the time he did not regret his exile to the southern frontier and his life as a policeman, but now and again-here and now he yearned to return to the past and resume the life of the chariotry officer he had once been.
“He told me more than once how proud he was that we thought all his horses worthy of the royal stables. From that,
I assumed we were his sole customers. We and Menkheperre
Thutmose, of course. Maruwa also delivered horses to the royal house in Mennufer on a regular basis.”
“Who exactly do you mean by ‘we’? You and…”
“Those of us who looked at the animals he brought and made the decision to keep them. I speak of myself and the men who see to the animals’ training.”
The commander was a large man in every respect. He was tall and heavy, his legs solid and muscular. His neck was so thick it seemed a part of his head. He had the largest hands
Bak had ever seen, and the thickest wrists. His voice was deep and strong, his manner self-assured.
A hefty young man emerged from the large walled circle surrounding the well in front of the portico. Two heavy wa ter jars were suspended from a yoke across his shoulders.
The acrid smell of sweat wafted from him as he walked past and entered the nearest doorway.
Bak peeked inside. Beyond a high mound of straw mixed with manure, he saw a narrow room, somewhat like a store house but longer, with openings all along the roof to let in light and air. No horses were there, but several men were laying fresh straw, while others were filling the water and grain troughs that lined one wall. Each animal’s position was marked by a stone fixed into the floor, with a hole in the center for tying the creature.
He thought of the many long days his own team had spent in an identical stable, and could not help but wonder if they missed the companionship of others of their kind.
Smiling at such a flight of fancy-the two horses were more than content, gamboling around the large paddock at his fa ther’s small farm-he turned his thoughts to more produc tive exercise.
Captain Antef had suggested Maruwa might have been in volved in Hittite politics, but could he have assumed Hittite when in reality the merchant had been embroiled in the pol itics of Kemet? He would not have dealt directly with either
Maatkare Hatshepsut or Menkheperre Thutmose, but might well have favored one over the other.
“Did he ever express a preference between our sovereign and her nephew?” The young man who shares the throne but not the power, Bak added to himself. A young man wise enough to come to Waset and participate with his aunt in the all-important Opet rituals, thereby reminding those who should one day bow before him that he was the offspring of the lord Amon. Best not to air those thoughts while within the confines of the royal residence.
“He didn’t seem to care which of the two ruled our land.
He told me once he thought them both capable, a high com pliment from a man as able as he was.” The commander laughed. “Oh, he was puzzled by the fact that Maatkare Hat shepsut allows Thutmose to live. Which is understandable.
Any man who assumes the throne in Hatti slays everyone who might have the least excuse to wrest the power from him. A man born and reared there would expect the same of us.”
Bak chose not to mention that he had heard men of
Kemet, especially soldiers on the southern frontier, express the same puzzlement. “Did he ever give any indicati
on that he might’ve been involved in the politics of his homeland?”
“None whatsoever.” A horse screamed somewhere be yond a block of storage magazines. Minnakht raised his head, listening. When no further sound was heard, he smiled ruefully. “A couple of young stallions have been fighting.
We decided to geld them.”
Bak returned a sympathetic smile. Increasing a herd of fine horses through breeding was as important, if not more so, than importing animals from other lands to enhance the royal herd. “So you believe Maruwa held no interest in politics.”
“He was a sensible man, Lieutenant. He’d not have been allowed to export horses from Hatti or import them here if anyone in power had had the least suspicion he dabbled in politics, theirs or ours. I’d wager our sovereign’s favorite chariot team that he stayed well clear.”
Far too rash a wager to dismiss lightly the commander’s conviction, Bak thought.
Minnakht eyed him speculatively. “Have you heard other wise?”
“One man suggested the possibility. I suspect he threw it out because it was the first reason he could think of for the slaying.”
“A loose tongue,” the commander said scornfully. “Bah!”
“Did Maruwa ever mention knowing anyone who lives or toils in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon?”
Minnakht laughed. “What would a Hittite merchant deal ing in horses have to do with piety and priests?” He noticed the look on Bak’s face; the laughter faded to a wry smile. “I see my question is not new to you.”
“I’ve asked it of myself, yes. More than once.” Realizing an explanation was in order, Bak told the commander of
Woserhet’s death and of Meryamon’s. “You see why I’ve come today.”
“I’ve been wondering. I’d been told the harbor patrol was investigating Maruwa’s death and now here you are.
