by Lauren Haney
“The only objects he wouldn’t be able to trace from the source are imports from foreign lands: gifts and tribute given to our sovereign by kings from afar who wish her con tinued good will, items wrested from far-off lands in times of conflict, and objects obtained for the royal house through trade. All are the property of our sovereign, who offers a portion to the gods, the lord Amon among them, as a demon stration of her generosity and devotion.”
Another intersecting street, another pause to look for trou ble, a silent curse at the need. “User, the Overseer of Over seers of the storehouses of the lord Amon, told me that a few objects no longer of use in the sacred precinct are given to the god’s small mansion in Mennufer and to his shrines, while the rest revert to the royal house. I’m speaking specif ically of the smaller, more valuable objects like those con tained in the storage block in which Woserhet’s body was found.”
“We receive items from the lord Amon, yes. Often in sur 196
Lauren Haney prisingly small quantities.” The auditor flung Bak a cynical smile. “Between you and me, Lieutenant, User is a stingy caretaker. Those storehouses in the sacred precinct must be filled to bursting, yet he doles out the excess as if each object was more precious than life itself.”
“If someone is systematically stealing from the god, per haps User truly doesn’t have the objects to give away.
Maybe he’s blind, not miserly.”
They approached a major street. Bak felt the need to pause, to peek around the corner. He resisted the urge. If he was to snare the slayer before the festival ended, he had no time to slink around the city like a feral dog.
They turned the corner and strode toward the building that housed the central archives for the storehouses of Amon.
“You’ll find my scribe Hori to be young and, in many ways, an innocent, but he knows records and he knows how to search through them. He’s done an exceptional job so far, but he’s one man alone. To do by himself what must be done would take him half a lifetime.”
“As I said before, Lieutenant, I’m happy to help. I’d not like to see Woserhet’s slayer go free and unpunished.”
The auditor seemed a competent and congenial man. Bak had an idea he and Hori would get along well.
“The task will be a pleasant break from counting spears and shields and pairs of sandals in the storehouses of the royal guards.” Thanuny’s smile vanished as quickly as it had formed. “But I must admit I’d not like to end my life as
Woserhet did.”
“You’ll find two Medjays with Hori. They’re well armed and well trained and exceedingly loyal. A man would have to slay them both to reach either of you.”
“You were right, sir. Zuwapi always ships his trade goods to Ugarit on Captain Antef’s ship.”
Hori glanced uncertainly at the auditor, standing at Bak’s side beneath the sycamore tree that shaded much of the courtyard in the center of the archives building. Two Med jays stood with their backs against the trunk, chatting in their own tongue, looking very much at ease. Sharp, alert eyes belied the picture of relaxed disinterest.
“Say what you will,” Bak said. “I’ve told Thanuny of my suspicions. You must fill in later any details he needs to know.”
Hori gave the auditor a tentative smile, then went on with his report. “Maruwa seldom traveled north on Antef’s ves sel, but twice he did in the past three years. Once-the first time-when the ship was delayed in Waset to recaulk the seams. The second time about a year later. He received a message from his family, saying bandits had raided one of his stables. He had to return without delay.”
Bak’s smile was grim. Two long voyages to Ugarit. Many days of boredom, with nothing to do but look at the coastline they were following. Plenty of time to notice something amiss with the cargo. “What items does Antef usually list on his manifest when he sails from Kemet to the port cities at the eastern end of the Great Green Sea?”
Referring to the limestone shard on which he had made notes, the young scribe said, “Much of his cargo-nineteen items out of twenty-is almost always rough pottery, bulk wine, coarse linen, sheep skins and cowhides, bronze items such as fishhooks and harpoon points, sometimes papyrus stalks. Three years ago, he hauled several shiploads of wheat to Retenu when famine struck that foul land.”
“Other than the grain, all the items are made for trade and not of the best quality.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What of the more valuable items? I saw them on deck.
Not placed where they were easily seen, but not hidden ei ther. An inspector wouldn’t miss them. They’d have to be on the manifest.”
“That’s the rest of the cargo, the one item in twenty.” Hori referred again to the shard. “Aromatic oils, perfumes, fine linen, bronze vessels of one kind or another, faience amulets, multicolored bead jewelry.”
The breeze rustled the leaves, which rained down from the tree. Bak brushed one from his hair. “Are all the goods, both ordinary and special, shown as belonging to the trader
Zuwapi?”
“Usually. But sometimes, when Antef has the space, he accepts the goods of smaller traders or takes on board the household items of a family moving north.”
“Do any of those people include valuable objects among their belongings?”
“Nothing but personal items, and those of modest worth.”
Bak turned to the auditor. “As you may or may not know,
Thanuny, a manifest lists the items on board the ship, the man who’s shipping them, their port of departure, and the port where they’re to be off-loaded. No mention is made of where they initially came from or where they’re to go after they leave the ship.”
Thanuny peered at the shard in Hori’s hand. “Captain An tef’s ship is still in Waset?”
“It is,” Bak said, “and the harbor patrol is guarding it so nothing can be removed.”
“You’ve not arrested him, confiscated his vessel and cargo, questioned him?”
“I wanted more information, and now I’m glad I waited.
I’ve begun to think Zuwapi is in Waset. He has to be worried, but I don’t want to frighten him, forcing him to flee the city.”
Thanuny agreed the decision was wise, then said to Hori,
“I suggest we begin our task, young man.” Noting the reluc tance on the youth’s face, he smiled. “We need go back two years at most, I think. After we finish, we’ll go calling.”
Bak smiled at the scribe’s mystified look. “More provin cial governors come to Waset for the Beautiful Feast of Opet than at any other time of the year. If the lord Amon chooses to smile upon us, they’ll remember most of the items they’ve sent as offerings to Ipet-isut, especially those of value. The thefts might well occur during the voyage to Waset or at the harbor when they reach this city.”
Confident Hori and the auditor would find anything that could be found, Bak left the archives to return to Pentu’s house. The governor would not be happy to see him, but so be it. He was approaching the outer court in front of Ipet resyt, tempted by the milling crowd, the mingled aromas of a dozen different types of food, the laughter and chatter of merrymaking, when he saw Amonked walking out of the lane leading to Pentu’s house.
The Storekeeper of Amon spotted him, signaled that he should remain where he was, and hurried toward him. “Bak!
I was on my way to search you out.”
Bak saw no urgency on Amonked’s face, just the set look of a man none too happy. “You’ve news, sir?”
Shaking his head, Amonked drew him into the scattering of people around the nearest booths, where they would not easily be seen from afar. “Merely a word of warning.”
Bak glanced toward the top of Pentu’s dwelling, visible over the nearer roofs. He could see no one standing among the potted trees, but that did not mean no one was watching.
“Am I to be barred from the governor’s house?”
“I squelched that idea, but he’s very upset with you.”
“Because I talk
ed with mistress Taharet, I’ll wager. He wouldn’t have liked that.”
“He thinks the woman a goddess, unapproachable.”
Amonked scowled, his disapproval plain. “I made it clear that you were to do what you must and if that meant talking to the women of his household, he had no recourse but to agree.”
Bak’s frown matched Amonked’s. “She told me mistress
Meret was ill and could see no one. I’d not be surprised to learn that today she’s come down with the same malady as her sister.”
“No one in my household fomented trouble in Hatti.”
Pentu’s chin jutted out, his face flamed. He looked like a man ready to burst. “Instead of trying to lay blame where no blame can be laid, I demand you prove I was withdrawn for no good reason.”
“Sir, our sovereign recalled you with great reluctance, and only because her advisers heard all the evidence and agreed the charge was true.”
Pentu, seated in his armchair on the dais in his reception hall, the fat black dog sleeping at his feet, glared at his tor mentor. “I’m a man of Kemet, Lieutenant. I’d do nothing, absolutely nothing, that would bring about the least problem for my sovereign or her people.”
“No one accused you, sir, but certainly someone in your household posed a threat to the king of Hatti.”
“I refuse to believe it!” The dog leaped up, startled by the harshness in its master’s voice.
Pentu was so angry Bak feared for him. “Sir, if you let me, if you place no obstructions in my path, I may within the next few days lay hands on the man who brought about your recall. Would you not be happier to know his name and put an end to the matter for all time?”
Pentu shrank back in his chair, his expression sulky. “I spoke with Amonked not an hour ago. He left no doubt as to the vizier’s wishes.” The look he threw Bak was virulent.
“Do what you must, Lieutenant. Then leave my home and never again cross my threshold.”
Bak eyed the man seated before him. He could not imag ine Pentu, whom Amonked was convinced held Kemet fore most in his heart, dabbling in the politics of any foreign land unless ordered to do so by his sovereign. Yet if he had be trayed her trust, what might have impelled such behavior?
Bak could think of but one reason: if he thought he would be aiding the cause of his homeland.
When he asked for Sitepehu, a servant directed Bak to a small chapel at the back of the garden behind Pentu’s dwelling. What he guessed had once been a gatekeeper’s shelter had been cleared out and freshly whitewashed, and a shrine to the lord Inheret had been built into the wall at the back of the room. Jambs and lintel around the niche were painted yellow, and a small bronze image of the deity, a bearded man carrying a spear and wearing four tall feathers on his head, stood in front of a red background. Lying on the gray granite offering table in front of the shrine were a cooked goose and a bouquet of flowers. Sitepehu was on his knees before the block of stone, blowing gently at a dollop of very pungent incense, urging it to burn. Thick smoke wafted toward the god, thanks to the hot breeze entering through the open door.
“Back again, Lieutenant?” Sitepehu asked, rising to his feet.
“I don’t mean to disturb your ritual.”
“You didn’t. I found the incense no longer burning and had to relight it.”
Bak glanced around the chapel, which was far from large but more than adequate for a provincial deity visiting the capital. “Pentu treats you and your god very well, I see.”
“He’s a good man, Lieutenant, one I fear you’ve thor oughly misjudged. He may’ve been in a position to cause trouble in Hatti, but let me assure you, he didn’t. I should know. I helped him daily with official documents, and I ac companied him to all state affairs.”
“I don’t say he’s the guilty man, but someone in this household is.” Bak looked thoughtfully at the priest. “He took you with him when he went to the palace in Hattusa?
Was that not unusual?”
Sitepehu scowled at the smoking incense, so thick it was more apt to smother the god than sweeten his nostrils with its heavy scent. “He didn’t entirely trust the translators, and though I speak the language with difficulty, I can understand it well enough to spot a poor or erroneous rendering of the words.”
“You’re a man of many talents, Sitepehu. You know the arts of war, you’re a gifted scribe, and you can understand a foreign tongue. Perhaps you were the man who wished to cause trouble in Hatti.” Bak smiled, trying to make light the accusation.
Sitepehu flung him a startled look, then laughed. “I value my life far too much to poke around in the politics of Hatti.”
The breeze faltered, letting the smoke travel where it would. A spiral of black twisted and turned like an unkind spirit seeking them out. Bak stepped backward, hoping it would not find him. “Have you ever met Captain Antef, mas ter of a cargo ship that plies the waters between here and
Ugarit?”
“I’ve never seen incense burn so poorly. I must’ve bought an inferior product.” Sitepehu waved away a coil of smoke and motioned Bak to precede him out the door. “I’ll let it smolder for a while. With luck, whatever is making it misbe have will burn away.”
“Captain Antef?” Bak prompted.
“Hmmm.” Sitepehu led him to the bench by the pool.
“Wasn’t that the name of one of the seamen who came to the dwelling we were using in Ugarit? Pahure brought several men to see Pentu when we were searching for a ship big enough to hold all our personal and household belongings.”
“Can you describe him?”
The priest sat down, plucked a spear of grass from a nearby clump, and bit off the tip. “A man of medium height, going to fat. One whose appearance in the past must’ve drawn women like flies to honey.”
Bak spotted the small green frog he had seen before, sun ning itself on a lily pad. Its long tongue shot out, catching a tiny flying insect. “Sounds like him.” He eyed the priest with interest. “Did you select his ship for your move?”
“Pahure made the decision. Not I. And he chose another vessel.” The priest scratched his elbow. “As I recall, the cargo already on board was large, leaving the deck with in sufficient space to accommodate our belongings.”
“What did you think of Antef?”
“A scoundrel, like most men of the sea. A bit too effusive.
Likable in his own way, I suppose.”
“Did you ever see him anywhere else? In Hattusa, for ex ample?”
Sitepehu chuckled. “The Hittite capital, Lieutenant, is many days’ journey inland by donkey, not a trip a seaman would be likely to make.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pahure was not at Pentu’s dwelling but, thanks to yet another servant, Bak learned he had gone to a nearby market. As he walked along a narrow lane that would take him to the river’s edge and the place where fishermen and farmers tied up their small vessels, he thought of the ease with which he had obtained the steward’s location. Servants normally were not so helpful to an outsider, especially one prying into the lives of those to whom they owed their daily bread. Did that particular servant hold a grudge against Pahure, or was there a general discontent in the household? The latter seemed to be the case, since a different servant had as easily helped him find Sitepehu and another had directed him to Neter mose the day before.
He walked out of the mouth of the lane and swerved aside, making way for several women laden with fresh fish and string bags and baskets filled with the bounty of the fields. He was always amazed, when so much of the land lay beneath the floodwaters, to see fresh fruit and vegetables in the markets, yet he should not have been. He had grown to manhood in this valley and knew the ways of the land and its tenants. Farmers whose fields lay higher than most, those who suffered dearly in times of a stingy flood, reaped an abundant harvest when the flood was normal, while their fel lows waited for the lord Hapi to withdraw his gift of water.
He walked along the river’s edge, eyeing the fish laid out on the
grass; crisp lettuce, radishes, and melons; ducks and geese slaughtered and dressed for use or caged to be sold alive; fresh bread; jars of honey, local wine, and beer; flow ers. Along with the many mistresses of the house and female servants doing their daily shopping, a few well-appointed men were walking along as he was, looking at the produce, comparing one offering with another, haggling for the best price. Most had servants in tow. They were like Pahure, Bak assumed, men responsible for provisioning the households of provincial noblemen come to Waset for the festival.
He spotted Pahure standing before a fisherman whose years in the sun had burned his skin to the texture of leather.
The old man squatted on the grass behind a display of sil very fish, most the size of a hand, but one a perch as long as
Bak’s arm. A younger man identical in size and shape and with similar features sat in the small, unpainted fishing boat drawn up against the riverbank, mending a net while his fa ther sold the day’s catch.
A plump, ruddy-faced female servant knelt before the dis play, examining the perch. The creature’s scales glistened in the sunlight; it smelled as fresh as the water from which it had been pulled. Two youths stood beside Pahure, one carry ing a string bag bulging with produce, the other holding an empty basket.
“That fish has been lying in the sun a long time,” Pahure said, acknowledging Bak’s presence with a nod. “I’ll give you…” He made an offer, slightly below the customary half of the initial asking price.
The old man’s expression darkened. “I pulled it from the water at dawn, sir.”
The steward raised his offer slightly and the fisherman lowered his demand by a similar amount. And so the hag gling went until buyer and seller were close.
“I can offer no more.” Pahure rested a well-groomed hand on the slight bulge of his stomach. “That’s all the perch is worth to me.”
