by Lauren Haney
Bak knelt to examine Kasaya’s handiwork. The Medjay had glued together only the shoulders of the broken storage jars, where the contents of each had been written. The odd shaped remnants were lined up like soldiers two abreast at the edge of the shadow cast by the pavilion. “Have you learned anything at all from these vessels?”
The Medjay, who could not read, looked to Hori to an swer.
“We went to the room where Woserhet was slain. From the empty spaces on the shelves, we concluded that fourteen jars had been removed.” Hori plopped down before the re constructions. “Kasaya has pieced twenty-one back together and he’s found enough shards with symbols on them for at least two more.”
“Twenty-three all told.” The young Medjay eyed the jars with more satisfaction than the potters who created them must have felt.
“Leaving nine jars that came from storehouses containing grain, hides, and metal ingots,” Bak said.
“No, sir.” Kasaya sat down beside the scribe. “When we separated out the jars listing bulk items, we came up with two extra jars, two too many for the available space in the room where Woserhet was found.”
“These two.” Hori pointed to two vessels’ shoulders, both painstakingly reconstructed using a multitude of small frag ments. Riddled with holes, left empty when the pieces could not be found, they both were lopsided and bulged in places.
“The labels are hard to read because so many symbols are missing, but we both think they came from somewhere else, another storehouse that contained valuables probably.”
Bak knelt beside him, gingerly lifted one of the two re constructions, and compared it to several others. “What gave you that idea?”
“These two were much more badly damaged. I think someone removed the documents and threw them on the fire.” Hori pointed toward the charred scrolls in the basket.
“When the jars were empty, he flung them down, breaking them, and stomped on the fragments.”
“I found a lot of crushed pieces on the floor close to where
Woserhet fell,” Kasaya said. “The slayer was determined to destroy those pots.”
Bak stared at the label, but could make nothing of the few legible symbols. “Have you gone yet to the main storehouse archives, Hori?”
“Yes, sir.” The scribe took the piece and set it with the others. “Woserhet audited the records there about four months ago, and he came back several times during the past month. The chief archivist knew him fairly well, and he’s convinced the auditor would’ve drawn his attention to any thing he found amiss.”
“Did Woserhet concentrate his effort in any special part of the archives?”
“If so, the archivist took no notice.”
“Perhaps another scribe paid more heed.” Bak rose to his feet. “You must go back and ask. Then you must look through all the records anyone remembers Woserhet exam ining. When you finish with that, you must look at past rec ords for the storage block in which his body was found, going back five years or so. You must also ask if any storage jars are missing.”
“A huge effort, sir, too big for a man alone.”
Bak smiled at the scribe’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll find someone to help. In the meantime, I’ve another task you may find more to your liking. This at the customs records center.”
Kasaya, useless for any task requiring the ability to read, looked glum. “Is there nothing I can do, sir?”
“You must find Woserhet’s servant Tati. We could use his help, and we need the files that have disappeared with him.”
“I don’t understand, sir.” Hori veered around the gang plank of a large, graceful traveling ship moored against the bank of the river. Two sailors sat on board, paying more at tention to the comings and goings in the market than to the ropes they were mending. “Why are we going to the cus toms office?”
“I saw objects on Captain Antef’s cargo ship that looked very much like those used in the sacred rituals. I think some one is stealing from the storehouses of the lord Amon and the Hittite merchant Zuwapi is shipping the objects to Hatti, and probably to other lands to the north of Kemet as well.”
Hori shook his head, unable to understand. “Who would dare steal from the lord Amon? Or any lesser deity, for that matter?”
“With luck and if the gods choose to smile upon us, an ex amination of the shipping records may point to the thief.”
“What specifically am I to look for?”
Bak veered around a mooring post sunk deep into the riverbank. The line snugged around the post squeaked each time a swell lifted the small cargo ship, whose deck was mounded high with rough chunks of golden sandstone. A lone sailor sat on the rocks, his head bowed over his fishing pole, snoring.
“Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious, but basi cally ask yourself these questions: Does Zuwapi always ship his trade goods on Antef’s vessel? Did Maruwa ever make his return journey to Hatti on Antef’s ship when it was laden with
Zuwapi’s cargo? Focus also on Zuwapi’s export items and look for objects of value. I suspect the destination shown on the manifests is always Ugarit, but if any other port is listed, take note, paying heed to exactly what was delivered where.”
Hori nodded, understanding. “If Zuwapi is transporting stolen goods out of Kemet, Maruwa may have noticed.”
“A strong possibility. And if he did, he would’ve reported the fact.” Bak ducked around a man seated on the moist earth with a small, chirping monkey. The man was examin ing a handful of bright beads and amulets thrown to him as a reward for the animal’s performance. Or stolen by the mon key from a market stall.
“Do you think Zuwapi slew Maruwa?”
“I’ve been told he dwells in Mennufer when he comes to the land of Kemet. If we should discover he’s here in Waset, we must take a long, hard look at him.” Bak caught Hori’s arm and eased him around a half dozen sailors, hurrying off their ship in search of fun and games. “I’ve no trouble think ing he’d slay Maruwa, but why would he take the lives of
Meryamon and Woserhet?”
“I’ll wager Meryamon was the thief, a man who could point a finger at him.”
“Woserhet was slain first. With the auditor dead, Zuwapi would’ve had no need to slay Meryamon. The man who may’ve been providing him with stolen goods. Goods sold in cities to the north at a substantial profit.”
Hori gave Bak a sheepish smile. “Put that way, my theory seems a bit thin.”
Lauren Haney
After leaving Hori at the customs records center, Bak pur chased from a market stall a chunk of boiled fish wrapped in leaves. Eating as he walked, he strode along the waterfront toward Antef’s ship, thinking to check the men who were guarding the cargo. As he approached the vessel, he saw in the distance several men coming toward him. Taking them for sailors, he paid no heed.
He reached the gangplank and headed upward. Captain
Antef stood at the bow, watching him with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, understandable since he rightly blamed Bak for the harbormaster’s decision to hold his ship in Waset.
At the top of the gangplank, Bak ate the last bite of fish and threw the leaves overboard. He caught another glimpse of the sailors, paused, looked at them harder. The three in front were walking side by side, while the fourth was slightly behind. It took but an instant to register the laggard’s appearance, his swarthy complexion. He was the foreign looking man who had argued with the red-haired man to whom Meryamon had passed a message.
Bak hurried down the gangplank and walked at a good fast pace toward the approaching men. The swarthy man abruptly veered aside and strode swiftly into the nearest lane, vanishing between two building blocks. Bak broke into a run, sped past the sailors, and darted into the mouth of the lane. He spotted the swarthy man at the far end, running full out. The man vanished into an intersecting street. By the time Bak reached the corner, he had disappeared. He searched the nearby lanes, but the man had gone.
The exercise, though futile, had been informative. The swart
hy man knew who he was and did not wish to be ques tioned. Could he be Zuwapi? A man supposed to be in
Mennufer?
Chapter Twelve
“I’m beginning to worry, Imsiba.” Bak leaned against the rail of the cargo ship, a broad, sturdy vessel spotlessly clean but badly in need of overall maintenance, and shook a peb ble from his sandal. “The day Woserhet lost his life,
Amonked said he hoped I’d find the slayer before the festi val ends.”
The Medjay sergeant whistled. “You’ve only four and a half days, my friend. Not a lot of time.”
“Soon after-two or three days, I’d guess-we’re to sail to Mennufer with Commandant Thuty.” Bak’s voice turned grim. “I’d not like to leave behind a vile criminal unaccount able to the lady Maat.”
The two men walked up the deck. Imsiba’s eyes darted here and there and everywhere, seeking faults in the ship his wife might purchase. A northerly breeze made bearable the heat of the harsh midafternoon sun. The vessel rocked gently on the swells. Fittings creaked, ropes thunked against the mast, a crow perched on the masthead called to two others on a nearby rooftop. Sitamon, as delicate as a flower, stood at the forecastle with the vessel’s grizzled owner and the tall, rangy man who had served as master of the cargo ship she had owned while in Buhen. As he would captain the vessel she ultimately chose, his questions were sharp and percep tive, designed to reveal the craft’s good points as well as its flaws.
Imsiba knelt to examine a large coil of graying rope lying on the deck. “Do you have any idea who the slayer might be?”
“If valuable objects are being stolen from the storehouses of Amon, as I believe, practically anyone who toils within the sacred precinct might be guilty of taking Woserhet’s life and that of Meryamon. If governor Pentu’s withdrawal from
Hattusa was the reason for their deaths, someone in his household is probably the slayer.”
“Do I detect uncertainty, my friend, a lack of confidence?”
Bak grinned. “Simple confusion. I’ve too many loose ends, making me mistrust both theories. And neither meshes well with the other.”
Imsiba lifted the coils, one or two at a time, and looked closely at the rope. About midway through, he revealed a long segment that was so frayed and worn it looked ready to pull apart under the least bit of strain. Scowling, he laid the coil so the worn part was visible and continued the task.
“How can I help?”
Though sorely tempted, Bak shook his head. “No, Imsiba.
Sitamon needs you more than I do.” He saw doubt on the
Medjay’s face, smiled. “Look at the large number of ships moored here in Waset and likely to remain throughout the festival. Seldom does such an opportunity arise. She needs you by her side.”
Bak thought to go to the sacred precinct, but decided in stead to speak with Netermose, a man who would know well those who dwelt in Pentu’s household and the one he felt would more readily divulge that knowledge.
The aide was not an easy man to find, but thanks to a ser vant who had toiled for Pentu’s family for a lifetime and knew her betters as well as she knew herself, Bak found him at the river’s edge. He was carrying a basket from which he threw kitchen leavings, a handful at a time, into the river.
Twenty or more ducks bobbed on the swells, competing for fish heads, wilted lettuce, and melon rinds.
Finding Netermose away from the house was a gift of the gods. Here he might speak more freely than when under the roof of the man to whom he owed his livelihood.
“It’s hard to believe the festival is almost over,” the aide said, eyeing a dozen or so men adding fresh white limestone chips to the short length of processional way along which the lord Amon would travel from Ipet-resyt to the river for his homeward bound voyage to Ipet-isut.
“Other than the first day and one night, I’ve had no oppor tunity to take part in the revelry,” Bak admitted.
“Have you found the man who slew Maruwa?” Looking embarrassed, Netermose laughed. “Of course you haven’t.
You’d not have searched me out if you had.”
Bak reached out, palm up, signaling that they should walk south along the river. The ducks swam along beside them, squawking for another handout. “When I asked you yester day which member of Pentu’s household might’ve hoped to cause trouble in the land of Hatti, you said the tale was un true. You spoke with utter conviction, yet you surely know that an envoy is not lightly recalled. And you must’ve been told that Pentu’s successor, when he arrived in Hattusa, ver ified the charge.”
“Your presence has brought back much that I’d hoped to forget.”
They strolled past a mooring post sunk deep into the moist, grassy bank and swerved around an acacia hanging out over the river, bowing toward the lord Hapi and his beneficent floodwaters.
“Three men have died, Netermose. The incident in Hat tusa may or may not be linked to their deaths. If it is, any in formation you offer may help snare the slayer.” Bak saw a denial forming on the aide’s face and raised his hand for si lence. “If those who dwell in Pentu’s household prove inno 182
Lauren Haney cent, the sooner I learn the truth and put aside my suspi cions, the sooner I’ll turn down a more fruitful path.”
A long silence, an unhappy sigh. “I was appalled at the very thought that someone in our household had been in volved with Hittite politics.” Netermose, his face gray and strained, shook his head as if denying a thing he knew to be true. “According to Hittite law, if a man is caught plotting against the king, he and everyone in his family are slaugh tered. That might also have held true if a member of an en voy’s household were found guilty of plotting against the throne. I consider myself and all who served Pentu in Hat tusa to be lucky that we were withdrawn before the traitor was identified.”
“Who do you think would take such a risk? You must’ve given the matter some thought.”
Netermose looked truly puzzled. “I never reached a con clusion. Each and every one of us is a man or woman of
Kemet, loyal to our sovereign and the land she governs. Why any one of us would do such a thing is beyond me.”
To stir up trouble in the land of Hatti-or any other land, for that matter-did not necessarily mean a man was not loyal to his homeland. The true test of loyalty depended on whom he was backing and how that individual meant to deal with Kemet. “You grew to manhood on Pentu’s estate, I be lieve you once said.” Or inferred.
The aide did not blink an eye at the more personal ques tion. “Yes, sir.”
“Have you always toiled for the governor and his family?
Or did you leave Tjeny for a time?”
“Why would I leave? Pentu and his father before him have always been good to me. Through his father’s generos ity, I learned to read and write. I studied with Pentu as a child, played with him. I’m pleased to count him among my friends. Of equal import, he raised me up to my present po sition. If not for him, I’d be toiling in the fields with my brothers.”
Bak noted the pride on the aide’s face, the devotion of a servant for a longtime master. “Did Pentu not go to Waset as a child to study in the royal house, as other noble youths do?”
“Yes, sir, but he didn’t remain for long. His father died when he was twelve years of age and he had to return to
Tjeny to assume his duties as landowner and to learn from his uncle the duties of a governor.”
“He never served in the army?”
“No, sir.”
Bak wondered if any man who had spent his life so close to his provincial birthplace would become involved in the politics of another land. Netermose’s very innocence might allow him to stumble into a predicament that was beyond his understanding, but to venture into a situation he understood would be unlikely. Pentu must have been almost as shel tered, so the same would most likely be true for him. Why, in the name of the lord Amon, had Maatkare Hatshepsut named him her envoy to a distant and alien land like Hatti?
“Tell me of Sitepehu.
He was a soldier in Retenu, he said, but I know little else about him.”
Netermose turned away to throw a handful of kitchen leavings into the river. The ducks fluttered across the water to grab what they could. Quacks blended in a single ear splitting racket. “I don’t like speaking of a man behind his back, Lieutenant.”
“Better to speak of him now than to find him one morning with his throat cut. As Maruwa’s was. Or to find him cutting someone else’s throat, possibly yours.”
The aide flushed, then spoke with a reluctance that gradu ally diminished. “He served in the infantry from the age of fourteen and rose to the lofty position of lieutenant, learning to read and write along the way. He likes to say he climbed through the ranks with the tenacity of a hyena stalking its prey. He was wounded, came close to dying. You saw the scar on his shoulder. He went to his sister, who dwelt in Tjeny, to recover.
“Pentu met him, liked him, and took him into his house hold as a scribe.” The aide’s smile was rueful. “I sometimes resent his success in Tjeny, in our household, but I’m the first to admit he never shirks his duty. He rapidly attained the position of chief scribe, and thus he went with us to Hattusa.
When we returned, Pentu appointed him chief priest of the lord Inheret.”
“While a soldier, did he ever travel beyond Retenu to the land of Hatti?”
“If so, he never said.”
They walked on, each man immersed in his own thoughts.
Bak had no doubt that Sitepehu could steal up behind a man and slay him with a single slash of a blade. He had been trained in the art of death, and his heavily muscled shoulders and arms would ease the act. But Bak liked the priest, en joyed his wry sense of humor, preferred not to think of him as a heartless killer.
Ahead, the grassy verge narrowed, squeezed between the riverbank and the massive enclosure wall around Ipet-resyt.
