Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  What had been done in Hattusa was too serious, threatening the throne of a king friendly to Maatkare Hatshepsut and the peaceful relations between the two lands. On a level more personal to every man and woman in Pentu’s household, not one of them would have returned alive to Kemet if that king had not chosen, because he also valued that friendship, to close his eyes to the vile deed.

  He pointed his baton of office at Taharet. “You, mistress, have much to account for.”

  “Get out!” Pentu leaped from his chair. “Get out of my house. My wife is innocent of wrongdoing, and I’ll allow no more of these… these… false charges.”

  Bak whistled a signal. Psuro and four Medjays hurried through the door and across the room. “Take her away,” he said, pointing at Taharet.

  Pentu’s face paled. One did not arrest an individual for treason on a whim. Especially with Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin serving as a witness. “No! It can’t be.” The worm of doubt crept into his voice, his face. “It’s untrue, I tell you.”

  Taharet stared at him, shocked and dismayed by his wan ing confidence. As a Medjay reached for her, she ducked away and dropped to her knees before her husband. “I’ve done nothing wrong, my beloved. I swear I haven’t.”

  He reached toward her, then slowly withdrew his hand be fore touching her hair. She moaned deep down inside.

  Two Medjays caught her arms and lifted her to her feet.

  She looked wild-eyed at Bak, cried out, “You can’t tear me from my home! I’m innocent, I tell you.”

  Bak looked upon her with pity. He was not proud of what he had to do, but it must be done. “You lived in Sile on a ma jor trade route and learned to speak the tongues of many lands, including Hatti. Your father, a merchant, kept you and your sister by his side to serve as translators. As a result, you met all who traveled through that border city-merchants, envoys, soldiers-and you could speak to them with ease.

  One of you fell in love with a man from Hatti and continued your relationship when you dwelt in Hattusa.” Much of what he said was conjecture, but he felt sure he was close to the truth.

  Pentu stared at his wife, appalled. “You? You would be unfaithful to me? To a man who held you close, who raised you onto a plinth and worshipped you as a goddess?”

  A harsh sob burst from Taharet’s throat. “I’ve done noth ing to be ashamed of. Nothing!”

  Pentu’s expression turned severe, cool. “You’ve betrayed me, woman.”

  “No,” Taharet sobbed. “I swear I haven’t.”

  Bak glanced at Meret, who was staring at her sister, her face whiter than the whitest of linen. He could almost feel her pain, and remorse threatened to undermine his resolve.

  “Take her,” he said to Psuro, “to the Great Prison of Waset.”

  As the men pulled Taharet away from the dais, Meret sprang to her feet. “You must release her, sir. She’s done nothing worse than protect me. I’m the one who became em broiled in Hittite politics.”

  “Meret!” Taharet cried. “Don’t.”

  Pahure strode quickly to Meret’s side. “Be silent, mis tress. He knows not of what he speaks.”

  Meret appeared not to hear either of them. “I did what I had to do, not for myself, but for a man I cared for above all others.” She looked at Bak, her distress evident. “Your as sumption was correct, Lieutenant. I fell in love with a Hit tite. A man of royal blood, who wished to unseat the king and replace him with another. I did nothing more than carry messages, but I knew their contents and sympathized.”

  Bak clamped his mouth tight, forbidding himself from urging a denial. The admission had sealed her fate and she was wise enough to realize that her life was over.

  The steward placed a protective arm around her. “You must not believe her, Lieutenant. She owes to her sister all she has. She’d say anything to protect her.”

  Bak stood quite still, looking at the pair. He dared not look at Amonked. They had remained together long into the night, Bak explaining his conclusions and describing what he meant to do, Amonked offering suggestions and giving a final approval. Bak’s plan had borne fruit, his assumption that Meret would not allow her sister to suffer in her place had proved accurate. One motive had remained uncertain, and the steward’s action had answered it.

  “Will you never leave me alone, Pahure?” Meret flung the steward a furious look and slid out from his grasp. “I’ll not allow Taharet to suffer for my transgressions.”

  Pentu frowned uncertainly at the pair, whether unsure if

  Meret’s admission was true or unsettled about his steward’s behavior, Bak could not tell.

  “You were wed to the Hittite?” Bak asked.

  She shook her head. “I met him long ago in Sile. He was aide to an envoy who came and went. When my father learned of our love, he insisted I wed another. A man of

  Kemet. Later my husband died and my sister and I moved to

  Waset. After she wed Pentu, she took me into her home at

  Tjeny. When we went to Hattusa, I met him again and our love deepened.”

  “Mistress!” Pahure took her arm, tried to turn her away from Bak. Glaring at him, she stood as rigid as a tree whose roots were planted firmly in the earth, and as immovable.

  Bak, well aware of what the admission must have cost her, softened his voice. “You once told me you’d loved and lost and knew not what had happened to him. You were speaking of the Hittite?”

  She bit her lip, bowed her head. “Yes.”

  If her lover had been identified as a traitor and found to be disloyal to his king, Bak could well imagine his fate. Meret had apparently reached a similar conclusion.

  “Why did you not leave us alone?” Taharet cried. “Why did you have to destroy our lives? We long ago returned from that wretched land of Hatti. The incident was forgot ten. Why bring it back to life?”

  Bak signaled the Medjays to release her. “A man was slain so your sister’s secret would not be revealed, mistress.”

  “You accused Taharet, yet you’ve known all along I was guilty?” Meret asked.

  He hardened his heart to the look of betrayal on her face.

  “She had too much to lose-wealth, position, security-to take such a risk. And she was far too protective of you.”

  “Who died for Meret’s sake?” Taharet demanded. “The

  Hittite merchant?”

  “Maruwa, yes. Whether he meant to point a finger at her, we’ll never know. But someone feared he might and cut his throat to silence him.”

  “Neither my sister nor I took his life.” Taharet glanced at Meret, as if suddenly afraid her sister had been driven to murder. “That I swear to the lord Amon.”

  Bak glanced at Pentu, sitting in unrelenting silence on the dais, staring at his wife as he would at a stranger. “Men may have died because of your foolishness, mistress-many no doubt in Hattusa-but neither of you have slain a man with your own hands.”

  Bak caught Psuro’s eye, warning him to remain alert and ready to act. “Pahure took Maruwa’s life,” he said.

  Stunned disbelief, shocked murmurs, muffled oaths fol lowed in quick succession. None remained unmoved except

  Amonked and the Medjays. The steward, though caught by surprise along with everyone else, managed a harsh, cynical laugh.

  Pentu glowered disbelief. “Why would he, of all people, slay a stranger?”

  “He wished to place mistress Meret in his debt, to win her hand in marriage. He wished to step up to a position of re spect in your household, to become a member of the family.

  That he could do only through her, the sole unwed female close to you.”

  Meret stared at Pahure, appalled.

  The steward laughed. “Don’t listen to him, sir. He’s des perate to uphold his reputation as a man who always lays hands on his quarry. He’s found no one else to blame, so he points a finger at me.”

  Pentu, looking uncertain, glanced at Amonked. He found no reassurance in the grim look he received in return.

  �
��I’ve heard it said that once you slay a man, a second slaying comes easier, and a third.” Bak eyed the steward with contempt. “Did you find that to be true, Pahure?”

  “You speak in riddles, Lieutenant.”

  “I speak of the auditor Woserhet and the priest Merya mon, whose lives you also took. And you ordered Zuwapi to slay me.”

  Pahure returned Bak’s scornful look. “I’ve had no deal ings with anyone in the sacred precinct for as long as I can remember. Why would I wish those two men dead? Or you, for that matter?”

  “To save yourself from the charge of stealing ritual items from the lord Amon and smuggling them out of the land of

  Kemet.”

  Every man and woman in Pentu’s household gaped.

  “You know not of what you speak,” Pahure scoffed.

  “You’d be hard pressed to prove I knew one of the three.”

  “You undoubtedly met Maruwa in Hattusa. You met

  Woserhet when he stopped in Tjeny, but I doubt you feared him at that time. You were too far removed from the scene of your crimes. Not until he became suspicious of Meryamon did he and the priest have to die.”

  “How would I come to know a priest?”

  “Meryamon grew to manhood in Abedju, as did you. As did his friend Nehi. The town is not large. You had to know each other, and your sister’s presence there along with the presence of Meryamon’s parents gave you ample opportu nity to meet and plan. I sent a courier downriver last night and will know for a fact within a few days.”

  Pahure plastered a smile on his face. “You can’t prove a thing.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Amonked said. “He has merely to take you before the vizier and state his case. My word will attest to the truth of the charge.”

  Baffled, the governor asked, “Pahure? Slay three men?

  Steal from the lord Amon? I can’t believe it of him. Not for a woman with no wealth of her own.”

  “Mistress Meret was but a stepping-stone. Wed to her, he would be looked upon as a brother to the governor of Tjeny.

  He could move to Waset, to this dwelling, or to another fine dwelling in Mennufer and gradually begin to use the riches he amassed from the objects stolen from the sacred precinct.

  As a man of wealth and position, he could easily become acquainted with those who walk in the shadow of Maatkare

  Hatshepsut, and from there he could move into a position of influence and power. Or so he believed, at any rate.”

  Pentu, sitting stiff and straight in his armchair, eyed

  Pahure warily. “How certain are you of this charge, Lieu tenant?”

  Bak nodded to Psuro, who ordered two Medjays to close in on the steward. Whistling a signal, he summoned Hori and Kasaya from the next room.

  As the pair hurried into the hall, a smiling Hori held out a long-necked red jar like those used in the land of Amurru in which Ugarit was the primary port. “We found this jar buried in the garden, sir, behind the shrine of the lord In heret. It contains scrolls describing some property held in

  Ugarit and names Pahure as the owner.”

  Pahure rammed an elbow into the pit of one Medjay’s stomach and struck the other high between the legs with a knee. Their spears clattered to the floor and they both bent double, clutching their injured parts. Before anyone else could think to act, he raced toward the door. Hori stepped into his path. The steward plowed into the scribe with a shoulder, knocking him against Kasaya. The jar slipped from Hori’s hands and crashed onto the floor, sending shards and scrolls in all directions. Pahure ducked around the two young men. Leaping across the threshold, he vanished from sight.

  Dashing after the steward, Bak yelled at Psuro and the two unhurt Medjays to give chase. He reached the door ahead of them and spotted his quarry on the opposite side of an inner courtyard, vanishing through the portal at the top of the stairs. Though Pahure had allowed his waist to thicken as a measure of his success, he clearly had lost none of the speed and strength honed by his life as a sailor on the Great

  Green Sea.

  Bak dashed across the court, passing a startled servant carrying an armload of fresh, yeasty-smelling bread, and leaped through the door. As he plunged downward, he glimpsed Pahure racing ahead down the zigzagging stair way. The way was poorly lit, the landings cluttered with large, elongated water jars and less porous, rounder storage jars. Behind, he heard the rapid footsteps of Psuro and the

  Medjays. He heard a thud, a curse, the sound of a rolling jar.

  A triumphant shout told him one of the men had caught the container before it could tumble down the stairs.

  Pahure leaped off the bottom step, shoved an elderly fe male servant out of his way, and raced through the door that opened into an anteroom. Certain he meant to leave the house, Bak put on an added burst of speed. The steward was too far ahead to catch. He banged open the front door, raced through, and leaped into the street, which teemed with men, women, and children streaming toward Ipet-resyt.

  Bak reached the exit and glanced back. He saw Psuro and the Medjays racing out of the stairwell, with Sitepehu run ning after them, an unexpected sight, decked out as he was in his priestly finery. Hori followed close behind with

  Netermose.

  Praying Pahure would not think to grab a hostage, Bak sped after him into the street, which was filled with the deep shadows of early morning. Above the two- and three-story houses that hugged both sides, ribbons of red and yellow spread out from the lord Khepre, not long risen above the eastern horizon. The smells of fresh bread, animals and their waste, humanity, and the river hung in the warm, sticky air.

  Pahure dashed west toward Ipet-resyt. He shoved aside a man carrying a small boy on his shoulders, cursed three young women walking side by side, scattering them, and shouldered an elderly couple out of his way. Bubbling voices broke off at his rude passage, children half dancing at their parents’ heels stopped to stare. An older boy peeked out of an open doorway. Grinning mischievously, he stuck out a foot, trying to trip the steward. Instead of the good-natured laugh he probably expected, he received a cuff across the side of his head that sent him reeling.

  Bak did not break his stride. Hori, he felt confident, would summon help for anyone in need.

  Dashing out of the street and onto the swath of trampled grass between the houses and the open court in front of Ipet resyt, Pahure slowed and glanced around as if taking mea sure of his surroundings. He veered to the right and sped toward the northern end of the wall enclosing the court. Bak raced after him into the sunlight and he, too, took note of the world around him.

  Dense crowds filled the court, awaiting the greatest of the gods and his earthly daughter and son. Those who had come too late for a prime spot from which to view the procession that would, within a short time, depart from the southern mansion were milling around the booths, seeking a better vantage point. Bak could not see the processional route be yond the court to the west, but he assumed the throng was equally large all the way to the river. There another assem blage would be massed at the water’s edge, along which were moored the royal barge, the golden barge of the lord

  Amon, and the boats that would tow the two vessels and carry royalty and priests downriver to Ipet-isut. A flotilla of other vessels would be marking time on the river, waiting to accompany the procession downstream.

  Pahure rounded the corner of the court, with Bak about thirty paces back. Ignoring the booths that had been erected north of the court, the men and women and children who wandered around them, more intent on a good time than adoring their god and sovereigns, the two men, one after the other, pounded across the northbound processional way along which the lord Amon had been carried from Ipet-isut eleven days earlier.

  Trumpets blared, announcing to the world that the pro cession was leaving Ipet-resyt. A murmur of excitement surged through the crowded court as a dozen standard 276

  Lauren Haney bearers came through the pylon gateway in the massive wall in front of the god’s mansion. Bak could see
nothing over the spectators’ heads except the sun-struck golden figures mounted on top of the standards, the long red pennants swaying gently atop the flagpoles clamped to the pylon, and a cloud of incense rising in front of the gate.

  Pahure swung south around the corner of the court and raced toward the crowd standing along the westbound pro cessional way along which the deity would be carried to the river. Surely, Bak thought, he would not be so stupid as to run into the crowd, attracting the attention of the many sol diers lining the raised thoroughfare. No sooner had the thought come and gone than Pahure turned westward to run up a broad strip of grass between the spectators and several blocks of interconnected houses, enclosed within an unbro ken wall of white.

  As Bak made the turn, he glanced back. He saw no sign of

  Psuro or the Medjays or Sitepehu. They must have tried to cut through the court and had gotten caught up in the crowd.

  The grass was wet, often ankle-deep in water left by the ebbing flood. The new greenery risen out of the saturated earth was thick and luxuriant, too tempting to be ignored by residents of nearby housing blocks. A dozen or so donkeys were tied to widely spaced stakes in the ground, and an old man and a dog sat beneath an acacia, watching the crowd while tending a large flock of goats and sheep brought out to graze on the lush new foliage.

  Pahure pulled up his long kilt, freeing his legs for speed, and ran toward the flock, spread out across the grass. Bak raced after him. Water erupted from beneath their pounding feet, splashing their legs. The dog began to bark, exciting the animals in the flock. A few spectators turned to look, but most were so intent on the soon to approach procession that they could not be distracted. Bak heard a second blare of trumpets and the swell of voices as the people amassed in the court greeted their sovereigns, emerging from Ipet-resyt after a week of rituals celebrating their divine birth and the renewal of their spiritual power.

  A splendid white ram, the wool on his belly clumped with mud, began to trot toward the river, making the clapper tied to his neck ring, enticing his flock away from what he took to be danger. The animals bunched up to follow, forc ing Pahure close to the spectators, who stood ten-deep or more all along the processional way. The dog’s barking grew more frantic and it ran out into the grass. The old man stood and, shaking a fist, began to yell. The sheep and goats at the rear of the flock broke into a faster trot, pushing the others forward. People turned to look, but another blast of trumpets drew their gaze back to the court, where the lord