by Lauren Haney
In spite of all he had learned, the many conclusions he had reached, he was still unsure who had slain Maruwa,
Woserhet and Meryamon. He might well be able to resolve the two other crimes, yet fail to satisfy Amonked’s wish that the slayer be snared by the end of the festival.
“Captain Antef.” Mai, who had been staring out at the wa terfront through the large opening in the wall of his office, turned to face his visitors. “I’ve never been fond of him, but
I thought him no less honest than any other man who plies the waters of the Great Green Sea. It takes a certain amount of guile to remain untrammeled in the ports along its shores.”
“My scribe has taken an auditor from the royal house to the customs archive to examine old records of Antef’s voy ages.” Bak, standing before the harbormaster with Psuro and
Lieutenant Karoya, wished he could look down upon An tef’s ship, but it was too far north to be seen from this central location. “Thanuny’s eyes are as sharp as those of a falcon, and he thinks like the thieves he seeks out. I’m confident he’ll find proof of wrongdoing over and above the objects stowed on Antef’s deck.”
Looking grave, Mai asked, “The trader you suspect is called Zuwapi? A Hittite?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mai’s eyes darted toward Karoya. “How long will it take you to find him, Lieutenant?”
“If he’s staying somewhere along the waterfront, as Lieu tenant Bak believes, an hour, no more.” The young Medjay officer noticed Bak’s raised eyebrow, smiled. “I’ve plenty of informers in the area, sir, a few who’ve been victimized by besotted Hittite sailors. They’ll have noticed Zuwapi, that I promise you.”
Bak acknowledged the pledge with a smile. Karoya and his men toiled at the harbor day after day. They knew its denizens far better than he. “Antef and his crew must also be taken. Is your station large enough for so many men?”
“We’ll take them to a building we sometimes use to detain men who’ve committed no heinous crime but must not be al lowed to go free unpunished. Few people know of it and none use it but us.”
“Will you allow my Medjays to participate?”
Karoya glanced at Mai for approval. The harbormaster eyed the two officers, undecided.
“Sir.” Psuro stepped forward. “Lieutenant Bak has asked nothing of me or of the other men in our company since the festival began. He’s given us leave to make merry for the past ten days. In return, we let those men snare him…”
“You had no way of knowing I’d walk into a trap,” Bak insisted.
“Nonetheless, while you were made to suffer, we played.”
To Mai, Psuro said, “Now we’d like to help, to see with our own eyes that they pay for their foul deeds.”
Mai tried without much success to hide a smile. “I’d hate to think territory is more important than justice. Your men may participate with those of Lieutenant Karoya.”
The building used by the harbor patrol had once been the residence of a prosperous craftsman, taken over by the royal house for some unexplained reason. Inside the high walls were an uninhabited house of modest proportions with quar ters for lesser help tacked onto the back. Auxiliary structures included a well encircled by a thigh-high mudbrick wall, an empty stable and poultry yard, and a lean-to built against the outer wall. Other than the latter shelter, nothing relieved the harsh midday heat. Not a blade of grass or a weed grew in the yard; no trees or brush shaded the bare earth. Not a breath of air stirred.
That the craftsman had been a potter was apparent. A shallow pit in which the moist clay could be trampled had been dug near the edge of the lean-to, where space had been provided for at least four men to toil over potter’s wheels.
Nearby stood a neatly stacked mound of grayish pots of various sizes, many cracked and broken, left to dry after be ing formed but never fired. Several kilns stood out in the open, placed to benefit from the prevailing north breeze.
Their lower ends where fires had once roared were partially underground, while the chimneylike section in which the pots had been fired rose upward at a right angle. A small pile of kindling and scavenged wood lay against the house, awaiting a potter who would never return. A pile of failures lay where they had been thrown against the wall near the main gate: bowls and pots of all sizes and shapes, their walls cracked or broken, their fabric bubbled, their forms misshapen.
“Ideal for our purpose,” Bak said, looking around. “Do you use this place often?”
“Several times a year, the most recent being two days be fore the festival began.” Karoya watched one of his ser geants and Psuro climb onto the roof of the house. Three of
Bak’s Medjays were posted near the main gate and at two smaller exits, while the remainder and a few members of the harbor patrol were hunkered down in the shade of the lean to. “A ship’s crew, besotted and mean, staggered through the market, knocking over stalls and destroying merchandise.
They spent five days here while the master of their vessel gathered together the goods to replace the loss and more.
Needless to say, they’re now indentured to him for many years to come.”
Bak’s eyes came to rest on the kilns. “I suggest we heat up a furnace. I can think of no better an incentive than fire to set men’s tongues to wagging.”
Karoya’s men outdid themselves. Four harbor patrolmen hustled their prisoner through the gate in less than an hour.
Wooden manacles pinned his hands behind his back and a swath of linen had been wound around his head and shoul ders, hiding his identity from all who walked the busy streets and lanes. His clothing was disheveled and specks of red dotted the front of his shift. A patch of color on the shroud around his head spoke of a bloody nose. Evidently he had not come willingly.
“Here he is, sir,” one of the patrolmen said, and shoved his prisoner toward the officers.
The man stumbled, lost his balance, fell to his knees. With his head covered, Bak could not tell if he was the gravel voiced swarthy man he believed to be Zuwapi.
“Well done,” Karoya said, “and the others?”
“As soon as we tamed this one, Sergeant Mose and his men went after them.”
“Excellent.” Karoya smiled at Bak. “Shall we see what we’ve snared?”
So saying, he signaled the patrolmen to unwrap the man’s head. Two men moved in. One, taking no trouble to be gen tle, unwound the linen and snatched it away. The second man grabbed an arm and jerked the prisoner to his feet.
His eyes darted toward Bak. He gaped. “You! No!”
The gravelly voice set Bak’s blood to boiling. He formed his most menacing smile. “Zuwapi. At last we meet in the light of the lord Re.”
The Hittite jerked away from the man gripping his arm and ran toward the main gate. The other patrolman leaped after him, the length of linen trailing in the dirt. Made clumsy by his shackled hands, the prisoner’s gait was awk ward, not fast enough. His pursuer rapidly gained on him, caught the loose end of the linen in his free hand, and flung it over his quarry’s head, catching him by the neck and pulling him backward until he fell to the ground in a puff of dust. He sat up and spewed out invective in his own tongue, a string of curses filled with hate. The patrolman cuffed him hard across the side of the head, silencing him.
Bak crossed the yard to where the prisoner sat and stood before him, legs spread wide, tapping his baton of office against his calf. “You are the Hittite trader Zuwapi, are you not?”
“My name is of no concern to you,” the man growled.
“You’ve tried three times to slay me.” Bak’s tender head and ribs, the fire in his wrists, added menace to his voice.
“Do I not have the right to know who wants me dead, and for what reason?”
The man looked up at Bak with the scorn he might reserve for an insect. “I’m a guest in the land of Kemet. You’ve no authority to demand anything of me.”
Bak eyed the prisoner’s shift, made of the finest of fabrics, and the broad gold bracelets he
wore. His dress and jewelry, his arrogance, said he was a man of substance in Hatti. But
Hatti was not Kemet. Bak placed the tip of his baton on the man’s breastbone and shoved hard. The prisoner sprawled in the dust, half on his side. Fury suffused his face and he spat at Bak’s feet. Muttering an oath, the patrolman placed a foot against the nape of his neck and shoved him downward.
“You must speak your name,” Bak demanded. “Now!”
The prisoner wiggled to get free. The patrolman pressed harder, forcing his face into the dirt.
“I am Zuwapi!” The Hittite’s voice pulsed with anger.
“I’m from Hattusa, where I’m a highly regarded merchant.
You can’t treat me like this!”
The main gate swung open and the patrol sergeant Mose came through. Behind him, two patrolmen held Captain An tef, red-faced and sputtering, between them. The rest of the unit guarded a long line of bound prisoners, the crew of An tef’s ship. A rope tied around each man’s neck fastened them together like widely spaced amulets on a cord.
“Let him rise,” Bak told the patrolman holding Zuwapi down. “He must see his fellow prisoners and they must see him.”
Captain Antef looked their way. His face paled and he paused, as if unable to take the next step. A guard urged him on with the butt of his spear.
At the same time, one of the sailors spotted Bak and barked a startled oath. The next in line cried out in horror, swung around and tried to run, nearly strangling himself and the prisoners ahead and behind him. A third began to whim per and a fourth covered terrified eyes with his bound hands.
Their guards prodded them forward. Fear added speed to their pace and the ragged line filed into the stable.
The sailors’ fright at seeing Bak alive and well, their obvi ous conviction that they were looking at a spirit from the netherworld, was better than a confession as far as he was concerned. His enjoyment of the moment was torn asunder by another long stream of curses from Zuwapi.
“Take him into the house,” he said. “We’ll talk next to
Captain Antef.”
“I’m not a smuggler, I tell you.” Sweat poured from An tef’s face, whether from fear, his close proximity to the kiln, or the hot breath of the lord Re reaching into the unshaded yard, Bak could not tell.
He pointed his baton at the prisoner, made his tone hard and cold. “The cargo stowed on the deck of your ship in cludes fine linen, ritual vessels, aromatic oils and any num ber of other items stolen from the storehouses of the lord
Amon. That you cannot deny.”
“You’ve been sailing the Great Green Sea for a long time, sir,” Karoya said in a softer, kinder tone. “I find it difficult to believe you’d take such a risk.”
“I know nothing about anything stolen from the sacred precinct. Or from anywhere else, for that matter.”
“I’ve had an auditor from the royal house look at past rec ords of your voyages,” Bak said, taking his turn. “Each and every time you’ve sailed to Ugarit over the past three years, you’ve hauled items few noblemen and certainly no ordinary men could legitimately lay their hands on so often and in such large quantities.”
No one had ever noticed, Thanuny had explained, because no single inspector had examined Antef’s cargo time after time. As a result, the consistency had escaped detection.
“I’m the master of a ship, not a customs inspector.” The captain wiped the sweat from his brow and edged away from the kiln. “You can’t expect me to examine every object brought on board. And if I did, how would I know if some thing was stolen?”
“You wouldn’t know,” Karoya said sympathetically, “but did you not wonder about the many valuable items you saw?”
Instead of taking advantage of the opening the officer had given him, Antef merely shrugged. “Why should I? Cargo is cargo, nothing more.”
Bak stepped closer to the captain, forcing him back to ward the kiln. The heat was making his head ache and his raw wrists burn. The game he and Karoya were playing did not sit well with him, but intimidation, he felt, was far more apt to get a true answer than a beating with the cudgel. “I’ve been told that Zuwapi collects his goods in a storehouse near the waterfront and waits until you arrive to ship them. Why would he do that if he didn’t trust you to keep your mouth shut?”
“Why shouldn’t he trust me? I’ve never lost a cargo, his or anyone else’s.”
“You’re an excellent seaman,” Karoya said. “Your reputa tion in that respect is impeccable.”
“Stop treating him as if he were related to our sovereign,
Lieutenant,” Bak snarled, feigning anger. “A thief is a thief.”
He grabbed the captain by the shoulders, turned him roughly around to face the kiln, and made him kneel before the fur nace. “His right hand,” he said to Kasaya, whose large, mus cular form and stolid demeanor would bring fear to any man’s heart.
“No!” Antef screamed.
Karoya intervened. “Captain Antef, you must tell us the truth. I’d hate to see you suffer mutilation when all you have to do is speak out.”
Kasaya grabbed the seaman’s hand and jerked it toward the mouth of the furnace.
“No!” Antef screamed again. “I beg of you! I’ll tell you what you wish to know!”
Bak exchanged a quick look with Kasaya, who continued to hold the captain’s hand at the edge of the heat radiating from the red-hot coals within the kiln. He suspected the
Medjay was as relieved as he that the seaman had broken so easily.
Antef’s voice shook as much as his body did. “I never talked to Zuwapi about the goods he shipped to Ugarit. He was too good a customer, too faithful in bringing his cargo to me. And he always allowed me a fair return. He saw that I had a good mooring place in that distant port. He even helped me replace crewmen lost to other vessels there, or to houses of pleasure.”
“You’re not a stupid man, Antef,” Bak said. “You knew exactly what you were hauling.”
“No!” Antef wiped his brow and dried his free hand on his damp-stained kilt. “I suspected some of the objects were stolen, yes, but I closed my eyes to what my heart told me. I never once thought they’d come from the sacred precinct, from the lord Amon himself. Never!”
Suspecting the admission was partially true at best, Bak pressed on relentlessly. “Did Maruwa guess what you were doing, forcing you to slay him?”
Antef looked truly horrified. “No!”
“If he saw valuable objects on board and guessed they were stolen, you most certainly would’ve done what you thought necessary to save yourself.”
“I didn’t slay him, I tell you. Would I be so stupid as to murder a man on my own vessel? Especially when it was loaded with horses. Flighty creatures they are, easily pan icked. They could’ve torn my ship apart.”
Bak was inclined to believe him, and from the thoughtful look on Karoya’s face, he also believed he was hearing the truth. “If not you, who did take his life?”
“Zuwapi. The slayer could’ve been no one else.” Antef’s words, his demeanor were firm, containing not a hint of re luctance at accusing his partner in crime of so heinous a deed.
“No!” Zuwapi flung the word out like an angry and fear ful child throws a denial at a parent. “I didn’t slay Maruwa.
He knew nothing of the smuggling. He wouldn’t have recognized a sacred vessel if a priest had held one in front of his eyes.”
“You knew him well?” Karoya asked.
“We weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean, but we greeted each other when we met.” Zuwapi eyed the kiln and the heat waves reaching up from the opening at the top. The sand around the furnace was scuffed, indicating the earlier struggle. With luck and the generosity of the gods, he had heard Antef’s fearful cries. “I’m a businessman-a good one-and he cared for nothing but horses.”
“I say you took his life,” Bak said, “and you took the lives of two men in the sacred precinct. Men who could’ve pointed a finger at you.”
“I did not. Other than once during a battle at sea, I’ve never slain anyone.”
“You tried three times to slay me.”
“Would that I had,” the Hittite mumbled beneath his breath.
As before when they had questioned Antef, Karoya’s man ner was more sympathetic. “You can’t mean that, sir. If you’d wanted Lieutenant Bak dead, you’d have slit his throat.”
Zuwapi grew sullen. “I’ve no stomach for blood. How was I to know he’s as slippery as an eel?”
Bak signaled Kasaya, who forced the Hittite to get down on his knees in front of the kiln. “If you didn’t slay Maruwa and the others, why try to slay me?”
“I was told…” Zuwapi’s eyes flitted toward the ban dages on Bak’s wrists, and he sneered, “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Someone ordered you to slay me?”
“No one orders me about. No one.”
Bak nodded to Kasaya, who eased the Hittite’s hand closer to the heat. “Who wanted me dead, Zuwapi?”
Staring at the burning coals in the gaping furnace, Zuwapi growled, “I don’t know!”
“You have heard of the murders in the sacred precinct, have you not?” Karoya asked.
“Who hasn’t?”
“Did you know the two men slain there?” Bak demanded.
Zuwapi licked his lips. “I did not.”
“Do you always lie when the truth would serve you bet ter? You knew Meryamon. He stole the objects you placed on board Antef’s ship.”
Zuwapi’s mouth tightened, holding inside his answer.
“What of the red-haired man?” Bak asked. “Will you try to tell me he, too, is a stranger to you?”
Surprise flitted across Zuwapi’s face, but was quickly wiped away with a sneer. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“I saw Meryamon pass a message to a red-haired man, and he, in turn, spoke to you. You were in front of Ipet-resyt during the opening ceremonies of the festival.”
Zuwapi’s attitude changed once again, this time to a sly defiance. “If you saw me talk to a red-haired man, I don’t doubt that you did. I’ve exchanged words with many men since the festival began. Strangers mostly. How can I recall one over another?”
