Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  Amonked’s friend. The man from Buhen who laid hands on the malign spirit at Djeser Djeseru. A considerable step up from a simple harbor patrol officer.”

  “Lieutenant Karoya is a good man, sir.”

  “I’m certain he is.” Minnakht glanced at the man with the yoke, returning to the well with empty jars. “Maruwa had a woman here in Waset. Has anyone told you of her?”

  “Someone mentioned a concubine, but I wasn’t sure she’d remained a part of his life.”

  “I believe he was very fond of her. He may’ve confided in her.”

  Several men came out the door, carrying baskets of manure-laced straw, and passed through a gate at the far end of the portico. The waste, Bak assumed, would be saved for use as fertilizer in the gardens within the royal compound.

  “Can you tell me where I can find her?” he asked.

  The commander shook his head. “I don’t know her name or where she dwells, but Sergeant Khereuf may. He oversees the training of all our horses. He and Maruwa became quite friendly.”

  “I was proud to count Maruwa among my friends.”

  Sergeant Khereuf, a tall, sturdy man of middle years, clutched the rope halter of a young white stallion and ran his hand down its long nose. The animal trembled at his touch, but made no attempt to break away. “I doubt I’ll ever meet another man who knows horses like he did.”

  Bak walked around the stallion, examining its slender legs, sturdy neck, and muscular body. Its coat was damp from a long, hard run, and it needed to be cooled down and dried off. “Who’ll bring horses to Kemet now?”

  “The lord Amon only knows!” Startled by the vehemence in the sergeant’s voice, the horse jerked backward. Other than tightening his hold on the halter, Khereuf gave no sign that he noticed.

  “Should you not walk that stallion?” Bak asked.

  A look of approval touched the sergeant’s face, a hint of surprise that a police officer would recognize the animal’s need. As he led the horse to a well-worn path shaded by date palms that lined the rear wall of the royal compound, he asked, “You’ve spent time with horses, sir?”

  “I once was a chariotry officer, a lieutenant in the regi ment of Amon.”

  Khereuf was openly impressed, and any reticence he might have had about speaking to a police officer vanished.

  “What do you wish to know, sir? I’ll help you all I can. I liked Maruwa. I want to see his slayer punished.”

  “Other than horses, what did the two of you talk about?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Not much of anything, I guess.”

  Bak smothered an oath. He had met men like Khereuf in the garrison stables, men who could converse better with horses than with their fellows. But since Maruwa had come from a far-off land, perhaps he had given birth to a wider in terest. “Did he speak of the land of Hatti?”

  “Oh. Well, yes. He told me of the mountains, the vast plains, and hills covered with trees.” Khereuf’s step faltered, he gave Bak an amazed look. “Can you imagine, sir? Trees everywhere you look?” Shaking his head in wonder, he walked on.

  “What else did he speak of?”

  Khereuf said nothing, gathering his thoughts, then the words overflowed. “He told me of the village where he was born and the city where he made his home. He told me of his travels and the many wondrous things he’d seen. Rivers that flow in the wrong direction, from north to south, and moun tains reaching high into the clouds. Frequent rainstorms where the gods throw fire and shake the earth with noise, where in the cold months, rain turns solid and white and covers the land.”

  Bak did not smile at the sergeant’s awe, for he, too, had trouble imagining such wonders. From the first time he had heard of them, he had hoped one day he would see them for himself. “Did he dwell in the capital? In Hattusa?”

  Spotting a man ahead approaching with a big bay geld ing, Khereuf led the stallion off the path, onto the damp earth between the trees. “No, sir. He kept his wife and fam ily in a place called Nesa. Many days’ walk from the capital, he told me.”

  “Did he go often to Hattusa?”

  “Not unless he had to. He disliked the endless quest for power he found there, preferring instead a simpler life.”

  Bak fervently wished the sergeant was more garrulous.

  “Why did he go to the capital? To get passes and other doc uments allowing him to travel and trade?” He paused, giv ing Khereuf time to nod. “I suppose he met men of wealth there, men who felt the need to be close to the seat of power.”

  “Yes, sir. Those who had horses fine enough to bring to

  Kemet, at any rate.”

  The gelding neared them and whinnied a greeting to the stallion, which danced nervously in response. The man nod ded to Khereuf, eyed Bak with open curiosity, and led his charge on by.

  “You said he disliked the endless quest for power in Hat tusa,” Bak said, returning to the path. “Does that mean he stayed well clear of Hittite politics?”

  The sergeant thought over the question and nodded. “He once told me he valued his life and the lives of his family far too much to play with fire, and he’d toiled too long and hard to allow all he’d earned through the years to fall into the cof fers of the king.”

  Bak continued to press, approaching the same subject from different directions, but Khereuf’s answers never var ied. The sergeant was convinced the merchant had had no political dealings, and Bak himself began to believe that the suggestion had been a figment of Captain Antef’s imagina tion.

  He thought it time he ventured further afield. “Comman der Minnakht mentioned that Maruwa had a woman here in

  Waset. Did he ever speak of her?”

  “Irenena,” the sergeant said. “He went to her for many years. She was to him like a wife.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” The sergeant looked shocked. “He would never have asked me to his home.”

  Bak could well imagine how a woman might feel about the prospect of listening to endless talk of horses. “Did you never see him away from these stables?”

  “We sometimes went together to houses of pleasure, yes.”

  “What did you speak of there? Other than horses, I mean.”

  Bak thought the sergeant a good, honest man, but his tacitur nity was driving him mad.

  Khereuf seemed puzzled as to why Bak wished to know.

  “We often played knucklebones or throwsticks and wagered on the games. We talked of hunting the wild beasts, or of wrestling or some other sport. Or of the women we saw around us, those who toiled in the houses of pleasure, whose bodies we took and then left behind.”

  Soldier talk. The talk of men away from their families. No different than the thousands of conversations Bak had heard in houses of pleasure along the Belly of Stones. “Did he ever say where Irenena lives?”

  Khereuf shrugged. “Somewhere near the foreign quarter,

  I think. He spoke with pride of the house he had provided her. Three rooms, he said, and from the roof she can look down upon a well and a small grove of date palms.”

  With that, Bak had to be satisfied. How many wells could there be in or near the foreign quarter?

  “Lieutenant Bak!” Commander Minnakht stepped out of the walled yard that lay between the well and the building which held offices and storage magazines. “I trust Sergeant

  Khereuf was helpful?”

  “Yes, sir. He feels even more strongly than you that

  Maruwa had no interest in politics. I’m beginning to believe the reason for his death lies elsewhere.”

  “After we parted, I thought of something Maruwa once told me. The tale may have nothing to do with his death, but

  I’d be remiss in not repeating it.”

  “Sir!” A sergeant came through a solid wooden gate in a wall beyond the office building. “We’re getting ready to smoke out the rats. Do you want to see?”

  Minnakht glanced at Bak and groaned. “I guess I’d better.

  Come, Lieut
enant. We can talk while the men get on with the task.”

  Bak could understand Minnakht’s reluctance. As a chari otry officer, he also had been obliged to watch while the granaries were cleansed of vermin. A necessary task some men enjoyed, but he for one did not. They followed the ser geant into a walled area containing ten conical granaries.

  Three men stood off to the side, each holding two large, thick-chested dogs by their collars. Another man carrying an unlighted torch stood at the top of a stairway on a long, nar row mudbrick platform that ran along the back of the grana ries, connecting them and providing a platform from which to fill the structures.

  “All right,” the sergeant yelled, “let’s get started.”

  “A miserable chore,” Minnakht said, “but we can’t allow the rats to multiply. In spite of all the precautions we take, they get into everything, leaving their filth behind and con suming far more than their share of grain.”

  Bak watched the man at the top of the steps set the torch afire. Rather than bursting into flame, a cloud of thick, dark smoke rose in the air. “You have something to tell me, sir?”

  The commander drew Bak off to the side, out of the way.

  “Maruwa told me a tale some time ago. Three years, maybe more. A friend who toiled in the royal house at Hattusa, the stablemaster, wished him to relate the story to me so I could pass it on. According to him, someone in the household of the envoy from Kemet was interfering in the politics of

  Hatti, fomenting trouble.”

  Bak whistled. “A most dangerous endeavor if true.”

  “So perilous I wasn’t sure I believed it. Nonetheless, I thought the possibility so grave that I passed the message on to Commander Maiherperi, who stands at the head of our royal guards.”

  The man on the platform shoved the torch through an opening at the top of the granary, held it there, and spread a heavy cloth over the hole so no smoke could escape. The sergeant opened a small, square door at the bottom of the structure. Not much grain spilled out, which meant the gran ary was close to empty.

  Bak thought over the tale and frowned. “Would not so se rious a matter have come through official channels?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, and so did I. Maruwa, who’d had many more days than I to think it over, had con cluded that someone in authority in Hattusa wanted to pass the word on in an informal manner, hoping Maatkare Hat shepsut would act before the Hittite king was forced to. Af ter hearing him out, I was inclined to agree. For some time, our sovereign has looked upon the king of Hatti in friend ship. If the traitor had been caught in Hattusa, he would’ve lost his life, which would’ve strained that relationship.”

  Bak nodded his understanding. Whispers in the back ground were often more effective than blustering on the surface.

  A rat raced out of the granary, setting the dogs to barking.

  Eight or ten other rats followed, adults and their half-grown young streaking off in all directions. The handlers released the dogs, who sped across the sand, growling, barking. The rats, frantic to escape, sought shelter, but the best they could find were the long shadows of evening. They had no chance.

  Within moments they were dead and the handlers were racing around, catching the dogs before they could gobble their prizes and lose their ardor for the game.

  “Did Maiherperi think the tale true?” Bak asked.

  “He must’ve. He told me later that the envoy had been re called to the land of Kemet.”

  “I’ll need that envoy’s name, sir.”

  “I never knew it. You must ask elsewhere.”

  Amonked would know or, if not, would be able to find out. “Was the identity of the traitor ever established?”

  “Maiherperi never said.”

  A connection between the incident in Hattusa and the slayings in the sacred precinct was even harder to imagine than tying those two murders to Maruwa’s death.

  Chapter Nine

  “I agree with Lieutenant Bak, sir.” Lieutenant Karoya stood as stiff as the long spear he held in his hand. “The priest

  Meryamon was slain in exactly the same manner as the Hit tite merchant Maruwa.”

  “You went to the house of death this morning?” Amonked asked.

  “Late yesterday.”

  A dozen or more priests hurried down the wide stone path joining the sacred precinct to the quay at the edge of the ar tificial lake that provided waterfront access to Ipet-isut.

  Chattering like swallows, they walked around the raised limestone platform on which Amonked, Karoya, and Bak stood. Hastening down the shallow stairway, the priests boarded a small traveling ship that would carry them to wherever the day’s rituals required they go, probably Ipet resyt.

  Amonked spoke no more until they were too far away to hear. “What of Woserhet?”

  “It was difficult to tell, sir.”

  “The priests who prepare the dead for eternity had already removed his internal organs and covered him with natron,”

  Bak explained. “Between the fire, which had blackened and blistered his skin, and the salts that had entered the wound, its shape was lost to us, but I’ll not soon forget how it looked the day he died. Much the same as the other two.”

  Karoya may have been awed by such lofty company as

  Amonked, his sovereign’s cousin, but he was not so im pressed that he could not speak up. “I’d wager he was slain exactly like them. Come upon from behind, his head jerked back, and his throat slashed.”

  “I see.” Amonked turned away from them, placed his hands on the parapet surrounding the platform, and stared westward toward the broad canal that connected the lake to the river. Bak doubted he noticed the traveling ship pulling away from the quay or heard the beat of the drummer who kept the rowers’ movements in harmony.

  Swinging around, Amonked raised his hand to shade his eyes from the bright early morning sun and gave the pair a speculative look. “The two of you have come to me with a purpose. Tell me.”

  “As the three murders appear to be related… No! As we’re convinced they are, we feel they should be treated as one.” Without thinking, Bak slapped a mosquito on his arm.

  “Many people have come from afar to participate in the fes tival, making merry and giving no thought to right behavior.

  The harbor and market are much more difficult to control than usual, leaving Lieutenant Karoya with insufficient time to seek a slayer.”

  “And since you’re involved with the other deaths, you wish also to look into Maruwa’s murder.”

  “To combine all three would make sense, sir.”

  Loud laughter rang out from among the trees and brush abutting the slightly raised path that surrounded the lake and lined both sides of the canal. A scantily clad man ap peared, splashing through water left behind by the receding flood. Though he was some distance away, they could see he carried a harpoon, and a long string of fish dangled from his shoulder. Another man, cursing soundly, sidled through the morass, thrusting his harpoon time and time again. Wa ter splashed, a fish trying to save itself in the too shallow backwater.

  “Should not Mai, the harbormaster, have some say in the matter?” Amonked asked.

  “We spoke with him earlier.” Karoya ignored a rivulet of sweat working its way down his breastbone. “He feels as we do.”

  Amonked stared at the pair of them, thinking, then gave a quick nod of his head. “All right. You’ve convinced me. The three crimes we’ll now count as one, and Bak will investi gate them all.” He looked pointedly at Karoya. “I trust you’ll be available to aid him, should he need your help?”

  “Yes, sir.

  “Do you have anything else to report, Lieutenant?”

  Amonked asked Bak.

  Bak told him of his conversation with the stablemaster, concluding with Maruwa’s account that had led to the recall of an envoy. “Are you familiar with the incident, sir? If not, would you look into the matter for me? Commander Min nakht didn’t know the name of the envoy and he was never told wha
t happened to the one who involved himself in Hit tite politics. I believe the knowledge would be most helpful.”

  A long silence, a certain sign that this was not the first time Amonked had heard the tale. “In what way can that af fair possibly be connected to the three murders?”

  From the unhappy scowl on Amonked’s face, Bak guessed the story had been sealed away in a jar and forgot ten. Now here it was, thanks to him, rearing its ugly head anew. “It may not be, but how can I eliminate it if I don’t know the facts?”

  Amonked clasped his hands behind him and paced back and forth. “What to do?” he muttered to himself.

  “You surely know you can trust me, sir,” Bak said.

  “I can leave, if you wish,” Karoya offered.

  “No, no. It’s just that…” Amonked stopped in front of the two of them and eyed Bak. “You know the parties involved,

  Lieutenant. Thus you place me in an awkward position.”

  Bak was mystified. “I do?”

  A triumphant yell rang out from the edge of the canal, and the fisherman raised his harpoon from the backwater.

  Caught on the barbs was a small, limp fish, its silvery scales glistening in the sunlight. A gray and black projectile plum meted out of a nearby tree, a cry of alarm burst from the sec ond man, and a crow grabbed the fish and streaked away.

  The trio on the platform failed to notice.

  “Maatkare Hatshepsut appointed Pentu as envoy to the

  Hittite court at Hattusa,” Amonked said. “He served her well for close on two years-or so she believed.”

  Bak rapidly overcame his surprise. He recalled the sever al times he had met the governor, each time with the chief treasurer, and the many lofty guests who had been at his home. No wonder the incident in Hattusa had been kept quiet. To Karoya, he said, “Pentu is governor of the province of Tjeny.”

  The young officer’s soft laugh held not a shred of humor.

  “When word reached my cousin,” Amonked said, his tone ponderous, “she was inclined to ignore it, thinking Pentu a man of too much integrity to involve himself in the politics of another land. Her advisers, however-and I among them-convinced her he must be recalled. No one believed him to be the guilty party, but someone close to him was. He was compromised, so much so that he could no longer serve her needs.”