by Lauren Haney
A dozen small boats nudged the bank below an unimpres sive gate. Accompanied by the clinking of fittings and the chatter of men who knew each other well, fishermen and farmers hurried across boards spanning the narrow gap be tween boats and shore, balancing on their shoulders baskets of fruits and vegetables and fish. They passed through the gate, delivering offerings perhaps. Or simply food to be con sumed by hungry priests and scribes.
Bak and his companion turned around to walk back the way they had come.
“I recall Pahure saying he was once a sailor,” Bak said.
Netermose nodded. “He’s quite proud of the fact that as a young man he sailed the Great Green Sea.”
“Is he, too, a man of Tjeny?”
“You might call him a neighbor. He came from Abedju.
His sister dwells there yet.”
The two cities were about a half day’s walk apart. “Pentu dwells in Tjeny. It’s the provincial capital, I know, but would it not be to his advantage to make his home in Abedju in stead? It’s a larger city and far more sacred, with many sig nificant tombs and shrines, and pilgrims constantly coming from afar. I’d think his presence would be required almost daily.”
“His estate lies between the two-closer to Tjeny, I must admit. He’d rather live there than in his town house in
Abedju. The dwelling is far lighter and more spacious, and mistress Taharet prefers it to the smaller, less comfortable home.”
What mistress Taharet desires, Bak thought, mistress
Taharet receives. “With so many priests needed for the sa cred rituals, as well as the men and women who support them, does he not have many responsibilities in Abedju?”
“He goes weekly, staying several days each time. He doesn’t shirk his duty, sir.”
It must be a relief to hurry off to Abedju and wield the power he cannot exercise at home, Bak thought. “Tell me more of Pahure.”
Netermose hesitated, as he had when asked about Site pehu, but Bak’s grim expression urged him on. “He and his sister had no father and their mother toiled in a house of pleasure. Often besotted, she beat them. One day Pahure ran away. He slipped aboard a cargo ship and sailed to Men nufer, where he joined the crew of a merchant vessel bound for Ugarit. After a few years sailing the Great Green Sea, he jumped ship in Tyre, where he became a guard in the resi dence of our envoy to that city-state.”
The aide reached into the basket and threw another hand ful into the river. Birds collided in a mass of feathers and quacking. “Like Sitepehu, Pahure is a man of infinite deter mination. He taught himself to read and write and after a few years became the envoy’s steward. When he thought to re turn to the land of his birth, he sought a similar position in our household.”
“What do you think of him?” Bak asked, wondering if the aide resented the steward as he did Sitepehu.
Netermose’s smile was sheepish. “I don’t much like him, but he performs his task in an exemplary manner.”
“Sitepehu inferred that Pahure is a man who knows ex actly what he wants and always attains his goal.”
“In that respect, the two of them are much alike.” The aide’s smile broadened. “Pentu has more than once told me I should be more aggressive. Not only am I not inclined that way, but I’m convinced that to have three such men in one household would be disastrous.”
Bak laughed, but quickly sobered. He hesitated to ask his next question, but could think of no way around it, no better approach than the most direct. “Tell me of the mistresses
Taharet and Meret.”
Netermose threw him a startled look. “You can’t think one of them slew Maruwa!”
“I have no idea who slew the Hittite, but I learned some time ago that women are as capable of committing vile crimes as are men.”
“Mistress Meret is the kindest woman I’ve ever met,”
Netermose said, indignant, “and as for mistress Taharet, it’s true she’s strong-willed, but she’d never knowingly hurt anyone.”
Bak noted how carefully the aide worded his defense of
Taharet, his use of the word “knowingly.” “Would you rather tell me about them or would you prefer I ask someone else, someone who might not be as generous about Taharet’s sharp tongue?”
Looking miserable, cornered, Netermose raised the bas ket and flung the remaining contents far out into the water, causing another eruption of feathers and racket. “She’s not the most tactful woman in Kemet,” he admitted, “but she doesn’t mean to be heartless.”
“Were she and Meret also children of Tjeny?”
“Their father was a merchant in Sile, and there they grew to womanhood.” The aide glanced into the basket, found a piece of melon rind, and flung it at the squabbling birds.
“Mistress Meret wed a traveling merchant, but he was slain within months by bandits, leaving her childless and alone.
Mistress Taharet convinced their father that their lives would be wasted in so remote a town, so he sent them here to
Waset, where they dwelt with an elderly aunt. Soon after,
Pentu came to pay homage to our sovereign. He met Mis tress Taharet and in a short time they wed.”
Sile was a town on the eastern frontier of Kemet. Located on a major trade route, it had grown prosperous by provid ing weary men and donkeys with a place to stop and rest and to replenish supplies. As for Meret, he was surprised to learn she was a widow. When she had talked of a lost love, he must have jumped to the conclusion that she, like him, had never wed the individual to whom she had given her heart.
“Since Mistress Meret was a widow with no one to care for her, Pentu also brought her into his household.” Neter mose allowed himself a humorless smile. “The two sisters are very close. I’d not be opposed to taking Meret as my wife, but mistress Taharet guards her like a falcon and I stay well clear.”
Bak gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’ve a feeling mis tress Taharet wishes her to wed a man of means.” He thought of the woman’s previous interest in him, added, “Or one she believes has future prospects.” He would not have been so blunt, but the knowledge was clear on the aide’s face.
Later, as he hurried back along the processional way, he mulled over all Netermose had told him. Dig as deep as he would, twisting words and seeking hidden meanings, he could not sort one individual out from another as being more likely to have slain a man-or to become involved in the politics of Hatti. Was he wasting his time, looking at Pentu’s household? Would he be wiser to focus his attention on the sacred precinct?
Bak was not surprised at finding the Overseer of Over seers of the storehouses of Amon at the treasury, where he had found him before. Where else would a man be who was as obsessed with the wealth of the deity as User was?
“You’ve come to tell me all is well, I take it.” User, sum moned by an elderly scribe, stood in the doorway, a hand on either jamb as if to prevent Bak from entering. “I knew you’d find no irregularities in our records, no missing ob jects in our storehouses.”
“Many records were destroyed by the fire when Woserhet was slain, sir. I’m convinced they were burned deliberately so no one would know their contents.”
“Bah! You’re imagining a crime where none exists.”
“Woserhet informed the chief priest, Hapuseneb himself, that he’d found some discrepancies in the records of the storehouses of the lord Amon.”
Dismissing the charge with a wave of his hand, User walked to his armchair, plumped up the pillow, and dropped onto it. “To an auditor, a transposed symbol is a discrep ancy.”
“Hapuseneb held him in sufficiently high regard to allow him to look deeper into the matter, and I’ve found no reason why anyone would slay him outside of his task as an audi tor.” Bak paused, stressed his next words. “An auditor of the lord Amon’s storehouses where he’d found discrepancies.”
Frowning, User adjusted the pillow, fussed with the band of the kilt riding high on his ample stomach. “To steal ob jects from the lord Amon would be sacrilege, Lieutenant.”
“Humph.”
Bak leaned a shoulder against a brightly painted wooden column, jarring the roof. A sparrow let out a startled chirp and flitted into the sky. “As a man who regularly removed and replaced items kept in the storehouse, Meryamon could easily have held back a number of objects and altered the records.”
“No priest would do such a thing.”
“Priests suffer from the same fallibilities as other men, sir.”
“Steal from a god? The greatest of the gods? No.”
Bak could not begin to guess if the overseer’s denials were heartfelt or if he was merely defending his territory.
“The entire storage block, I understand, is filled with objects used in the sacred rituals.”
“I believe I told you so the last time we spoke.”
“I know that many items offered to the lord Amon are consumed, such as aromatic oils, perfumes, the linens used to clothe his image, and so on. On the other hand, ritual im plements, such as libation vessels and censers, are reused time and time again. Are they kept forever or, when the storehouses become too crowded, are some of them dis posed of?”
User stared past Bak, watching the scribe latch and seal the treasury door, securing the wondrous riches of the lord
Amon. The old man looked toward the overseer, who dis missed him with a wave of his hand, and shuffled across the lane to enter a smaller building.
“You were saying?” User’s eyes focused on Bak and he nodded. “Oh, yes. Each year when we take inventory, we separate out items no longer of use. We distribute a few to the lord Amon’s small mansion in Mennufer and to his vari ous shrines. The rest go to the royal house, where they’re stored if deemed worth keeping, either for use there or to be given as gifts to some wretched foreign king or princeling. If unworthy, the objects are destroyed. The pottery items are broken up, while those made of metal are melted down and recast.”
Bak cursed to himself. Another path to explore. “Does this happen often?”
“No, Lieutenant, it doesn’t. To give away anything of value is to drain the life from the lord Amon.”
Gold was the flesh of the god, but to think of the lesser metals and other materials as the blood of the deity was stretching the imagery too far. “Are linens or perishable items such as aromatic oils ever sent to the royal house?”
“We sometimes send small gifts to our sovereign, items for her personal use.”
“And each transaction, from beginning to end, is docu mented.”
“Of course.”
Bak scowled. He had traveled full circle and was back where he started. Items intended as offerings and objects used in the rituals had been taken from the storehouses of
Amon. By Meryamon? Could the young priest have stolen undetected the large quantities hinted at by the many valu able objects placed among the cargo on the deck of Antef’s ship?
User stared at Bak for a long time, thinking thoughts he could not begin to guess. Slowly the overseer’s look of stub born resistance turned to one of alarm. “You don’t think
Woserhet found discrepancies in the treasury!”
Where that idea came from, Bak had no idea. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt the thief dared aim so high. I think the thefts occurred in the storage block where he was slain.”
“If there’s the slightest chance…” User bit a lip, nodded to himself. “Yes, a criminal so vile might well begin to think himself untouchable and look toward the treasury as a source of greater wealth.” His eyes darted toward Bak, he said, “Can I help you in any way, Lieutenant?”
Bak was surprised by the man’s change of heart, but not so much so that he failed to leap at the offer. “I need to bring in another auditor, one unconnected to the sacred precinct. A senior man, as Woserhet was.”
User stood up, the movement abrupt, decisive. “I suggest you speak with Sobekhotep. He’s my counterpart in the royal house. Tell him we’d like to borrow the best man he has.”
Chapter Thirteen
A distant trumpet blared, followed by the slow beat of a drum and the clamor of sistra and clappers. Swallowing a chunk of cold fish, Bak walked swiftly to the end of the nar row, deeply shadowed lane and looked out upon the pro cessional way. To the south, the thoroughfare was blocked by large numbers of spectators looking toward the mansion of the lord Amon-Kamutef, one aspect of the lord Amon, called the bull of his mother. The building, located across the processional way from the first barque sanctuary, where he and his Medjays had awaited the lord Amon seven days earlier-a lifetime ago, it seemed-was enclosed by scaf folds and construction ramps. Another of the many public examples of Maatkare Hatshepsut’s devotion to the gods.
He had had no time to think of the progression of the fes tival, to pause and watch the various processions to the gods that marked the week’s advance to the finale, the lord
Amon’s return voyage from Ipet-resyt to Ipet-isut. The gen tle early morning breeze, the temperate air, the smell of in cense and the rhythmic beat of drums were tempting, seductive. He glanced eastward toward the lord Khepre, still too low in the sky to burn away the blue haze hanging over the swollen river and flooded fields. Yes, he could stay for a short while.
Tossing the last of the fish to a skinny cat and flinging away the leaves in which it had been wrapped, he hurried along the processional way. Reaching the throng, he veered onto the trampled grass verge and wove a path through the spectators, about half the number who had watched the inau gural procession on the opening day of the festival. He was surprised to see so large a crowd so early in the morning, but the majority, he guessed, had come from afar and wished to make the most of their journey, seeing as much as possible during the eleven days of festivity.
He made his way to the barque sanctuary and climbed the ramp to stand in the portico, already occupied by a half dozen priests and four infantry officers. The raised platform proved an excellent vantage point, for he could look over the heads of the spectators and watch the procession come out of the god’s mansion.
The trumpet sounded again. The inconsequential chatter of the onlookers dropped to a murmur. A buzz of expectation filled the air. Men, women, and children eased forward, crowding the soldiers standing along the procession’s route.
Men beating drums and women with sistra and clappers strode out of a passage through the center of the scaffolding, their backs to the newly risen sun. A contingent of priests came next, a dozen or more men draped in white robes, holding colorful banners and the standards of god and sover eign. Other priests followed, each shaven bald and wrapped in a long white robe that covered him from neck to ankles.
Half of these oddly garbed men purified the air with incense, while the remainder sprinkled milk and water on the ground over which the deity would be carried.
The lord Amon-Kamutef followed, his golden shrine held high on the shoulders of priests. Voices, Bak’s among them, rose in adulation. The sides of the shrine were open, reveal ing a golden god, his penis erect, standing stiff and straight.
Beneath him, two rows of priests held the long poles sup porting the shrine. Shrouded in white, with nothing showing but their shaven heads and bare feet, they looked like a walk ing platform for the god. Perhaps in the distant past they had been intended to represent a snake. Another aspect of the lord Amon was Amon-Kematef, a primeval creator god who could resurrect himself by taking the form of a snake shed ding its skin.
On either side of the deity walked Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose, each touching a leg of the im age as if steadying it. They were too far away to see clearly, but Bak thought they were bedecked much as they had been in th
e opening procession of the festival. He could well imagine how hot the royal regalia would become as the sun rose higher and the day grew hotter.
Following along behind were musicians playing handheld harps and oboes and drums. Dancers performed intricate steps; singers chanted the words to a song so aged and ob scure that none but the god’s priests could understand. Shak ing off the temptation to stay, to watch the procession from beginning to end, Bak left the sanctuary. He had to get help for Hori.
With the beat of drums throbbing in his ears, he left the crowd behind and hurried north along the processional way, his feet crunching gravel no longer blindingly white, made dingy by the passage of many feet. Passing a company of soldiers, a family, and several men and women walking alone and in pairs, he rapidly approached the half-finished gate opening into the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut. The most direct route to the royal house, which lay north of the man sion of the lord Amon, was to walk through the sacred precinct.
“Sobekhotep told me of Woserhet’s death and explained your need.” Thanuny, the auditor Bak had borrowed from the royal house, had thinning gray hair and a worn face, but looked like a man who could wrestle a bull and come out the winner. “I knew him and liked him. I’ll gladly help you snare his slayer.”
Bak slowed at the intersection and looked both ways before crossing. He had vowed, after the second attempt on his life, to take greater care, but had immediately forgotten.
Now, remembering the pledge, he found himself being overly cautious. “When did you last speak with him?”
“A month or so ago. Upon his return to Waset after his lat est trip downriver.”
“He was inspecting the accounts of the gods’ mansions and also those of the provincial governors, I’ve been told.”
Bak sidled around a laden donkey, the baskets hanging on either side filled with golden grain. “Can you guess the rea son in light of what you now know?”
Thanuny dropped behind him to pass the sturdy creature.
“If, as you believe, he wished to trace offerings made to the lord Amon from production to disposal, the provinces would be the place to start. He’d learn what items were sent to Waset, follow their path to the storehouses, and find out if they were there. If not, he’d try to discover where they went.
