by Lauren Haney
Pausing on the seventh step, Bak eyed the big sergeant. “Would one of the scribes you speak of be Ptahsoker, the man who spent last night in our barracks?”
“I failed to ask,” Imsiba said, his expression bland.
Bak thought of pledging a goose to the lord Amon in thanks for the debt Ptahsoker had incurred to Amonemopet, but he decided to wait. Wait for a greater gift from the god, one far more substantial than a lie.
He reached the top of the stairway, finding nothing, and raised the trapdoor over his head. As it tilted up, sand showered down through the poorly woven mat. The rooftop was stark and empty beneath the starlit sky. If Heby had left anything there, the wind had swept it away. Two glinting yellow eyes-those of a cat, he thought-stared from a roof across the lane. A donkey brayed somewhere in the distance.
He ducked back inside and let the trapdoor fall in place. Kneeling on a step, his shoulders hunched beneath the mat, he studied the room. His eyes came to rest on the oven. When he had looked inside before, he had retrieved nothing from the ashes. Maybe he should take a closer look.
He descended the steps, cursing the man who had reduced his lower back to a nagging ache. Retrieving the torch from the bracket, he scrambled over Imsiba’s long legs, knelt in front of the oven, and peered in through the lower hole. It looked no more promising than before. He fished through the ashes and withdrew every solid object he found. Finished with his own task, Imsiba hunkered beside him. Bak balanced the torch in the oven door and set about examining his finds: a few good-sized lumps of charred fuel and several pieces of baked clay. The largest was a hard ring-like object, the top quarter of a pottery cone. Another was a dried clay plug.
Not enough of the cone remained to say with certainty whether or not it had been weighed, but not so much as an inkblot marred the small amount of surface that was left. The plug, which had never been stamped with a seal, fit so well Bak was sure the clay had dried inside the cone. The objects appeared to verify his theory that gold was being brought to Buhen outside the normal channels; they did nothing to help identify the man who was bypassing those channels.
Imsiba spoke aloud Bak’s thoughts. “To find so small a thing when we need so much…I fear the gods have turned their backs to us.”
All Bak could think of was Maiherperi’s final warning: most men do wrong without thought, and you’ll bring them to justice with no great effort. But a time may come when the man you seek is so clever at hiding his actions that you’ll never find him. Bak prayed this was not the case, for if so, how could he hope to wipe away the doubt and suspicion which had fallen on his men?
“You lost it?” Bak asked, incredulous. “You lost your spear three days ago and you said nothing?”
Kasaya, his eyes glued to his feet, seemed to shrink within his hulking body. “Yes, sir.”
“Why did you not report it?”
Beads of sweat glistened on the young policeman’s broad forehead. “I thought…” His voice dropped to a low mumble. “I thought I’d find it and there’d be no need.”
“I pray to the lord Amon you’ll never be moved to use your wits again!” Bak jerked his arm from Hori’s grasp to aim an accusing finger at the biggest, strongest, youngest, and, he was convinced, the most stupid man in his company. “You and you alone are responsible for the rumors which say one of us took the goldsmith’s life.”
Kasaya shifted his weight, swallowed hard.
“Sir!” Hori said, dismayed. “If you don’t sit still, I’ll not finish tonight.”
Bak reined in his temper. Open anger was unseemly in an officer and would gain him nothing. The damage caused by the loss could not be undone. He lowered his arm and held it out to Hori, who began to spread a thick brown salve smelling of mold over the scorched flesh.
They were in their quarters, Bak seated on a stool and Hori on his knees in front of him. A neat white bandage, wound around Bak’s torso, covered the burn on his side. Strips of linen, a pottery water basin, and a bowl containing the salve were scattered around them. Imsiba glared at Kasaya from beside the stairway leading to the roof.
“Tell me,” Bak said in a more rational tone. “Where and how did you lose it?”
“I left it at the place where Lieutenant Nebwa trains his spearmen.” Kasaya’s eyes flitted toward Bak, back to his feet. “Outside the walls of this city.”
Bak checked the impulse to be sarcastic. “Go on.”
“I went there to watch them practice, sir. Hoping to see better, I thought to climb a rocky mound. I couldn’t go up so steep a place with one hand, so I…” Kasaya’s voice wavered. “I laid my spear on the ground, out of sight between two boulders.”
“You forgot it,” Imsiba growled.
Kasaya stiffened as if slapped. “Yes, sir.”
Bak wanted to wring the young Medjay’s neck and hang him up like a goose awaiting the cooking pot. “Were you seen by anyone, or were you alone?”
“I kept to myself, but other men stood above me on top of the mound. Officers, they were, and four sergeants and two of lesser rank.”
Bak’s eyes darted toward Imsiba. Had the gods looked on them with favor after all? Imsiba met his glance, raised the butt of his spear a hand’s breadth off the floor, and squeezed the shaft for luck.
“Sir!” Hori exclaimed.
Bak glanced down, saw salve smeared across his leg, ribbons of linen dangling from the half-bandaged arm. He had pulled it from Hori’s grasp without noticing. Offering the arm to the scribe, he asked Kasaya, “Did you know the men atop the mound?”
“Commandant Nakht was there. The others I didn’t know.”
“Did I not tell you and all the men in our company, long before we reached Buhen, that you must learn before all other things the names and faces of the officers in this garrison?”
Kasaya croaked a word or two, cleared his throat, said, “I know them now.”
Bak thought he had never met a man so aggravating. “Can you tell me which men stood atop that mound?”
Kasaya wriggled in place, nodded.
“Speak!” Imsiba commanded. “This instant!”
“The commandant was there.” Kasaya glanced at Imsiba, whose scowl grew murderous, and the rest came tumbling out. “The man who translated for him, Harmose, was with him. Lieutenant Nebwa was there with his sergeants and a herald who signaled his commands on the trumpet. Lieutenant Paser was there and so was another lieutenant-Mery he’s called.”
“I see no other way.” Imsiba’s voice rang with conviction. “You must go to mistress Azzia and question her. If she refuses to speak, she must be made to tell the truth.”
He and Bak sat cross-legged on the roof, filling themselves with cold roasted pigeon and the thick lentil soup Hori had warmed on the brazier. Familiar clusters of stars glittered bright and strong in the inky sky. Moonlight seeped over the dark shadowy battlements at the far end of the block. Rooftops spread out around them like a flat plain, lumpy with the bodies of men, women, children, and animals who had abandoned the hot, cramped houses to sleep in the cool, gentle breeze wafting across the city. The night sounds were muted, the usual chorus of howling dogs was silent.
“If she’s innocent of wrongdoing?” Bak asked, trying to sound reasonable, certain he failed.
“The wounds will heal, the bruises fade.”
Bak pictured her as he had last seen her, sitting on the floor among her husband’s possessions, head bowed, the light glinting on her lovely smooth shoulders. “No.”
“You vowed she’d not turn your head!”
“She was the commandant’s wife, Imsiba! A foreign woman, yes, but a woman of quality. Only at the viceroy’s command can she be dealt with so harshly.”
Imsiba retreated into silence, allowing the truth of Bak’s words to hang between them like a vaporous cloud.
Bak set his bowl on the rooftop, placed his hand on the Medjay’s knee. “Listen to what I believe, and judge my words fairly.”
Imsiba’s nod could barely be seen in th
e darkness.
“If Azzia knows the man we wish to snare and if she truly loves him, I doubt the most strenuous beating would bring his name to her lips. She seems a gentle woman and vulnerable, but I saw the will of a lioness when she threw the spear at Heby. On the other hand, if she cares nothing for him and points a finger his way, he’ll deny his guilt. To admit the truth would be to forfeit his life. Am I not right?”
Imsiba let out a long sigh. “Yes, my friend, you are. I’ve no doubt which of the two the viceroy would believe. The words of any woman found with her husband’s blood on her hands would carry little weight.”
“We need proof the one we seek is guilty,” Bak said, pressing his advantage. “I know of no other way to be certain his denials will go unheeded.”
“Proof!” Imsiba’s laugh was bitter. “We don’t even know his name.”
“No, but the lady Maat may well have guided the hand of that witless Kasaya. Thanks to him, we’ve more reason than before to suspect the four who were on the battlements the night Nakht was slain.”
“You speak of the lieutenants Mery, Nebwa, and Paser…” Imsiba hesitated, then added reluctantly, “…and Harmose.”
Bak dipped his drinking bowl into the larger bowl nested in the brazier, wiped away the soup dripping down the side, and licked his finger clean. “All who stood atop the mound could’ve seen Kasaya place his spear between the boulders. Nakht has gone to the netherworld. Of the others, I doubt any but those four can read.”
“Another man, perhaps one of Nebwa’s spearmen, might’ve found the weapon later.”
“Or a villager?” Bak asked in a wry voice.
The reminder of Tetynefer’s message to the viceroy brought a grim smile to Imsiba’s lips. “I think both unlikely,” he conceded.
Bak hunched forward. “According to Harmose, Nakht spoke with Mery, Paser, and Nebwa, each man alone, a few hours before he was slain. I think it safe to assume he also spoke alone with Harmose. They were all four near the residence when Nakht was slain, and all have traveled to the mines.”
“Harmose would slay no man off the field of battle, my friend,” Imsiba said with conviction, “nor would he steal.”
“Have I pleaded my case to deaf ears? He looks no less suspicious than the other three.”
“I’ve talked with him several times. He’d do no wrong.”
“Mery, too, appears to be a man of honor, but I’ll not proclaim him innocent until I know for a fact he’s the man he seems.”
Imsiba spat the tiny bones of a pigeon wing into his hand and threw them into a bowl containing other discarded bones. “What of Mistress Azzia? You’ve never proclaimed her innocence, that I grant you, but neither have you looked for proof of her guilt.”
The accusation stung. It was true and Bak knew it. He had not approached her friends, women in whom she might have confided, nor had he searched for hints of a liaison which might have reached the ears of officers and men other than Paser. Now his time was running out; he had but a single day left before he must take her to Ma’am. Worse yet, with him away from Buhen the growing hatred of his men might well reach a climax, and he would not be here to help them.
Hori could go from house to house and from barracks to barracks, using his youthful candor to pry the truth from women and men alike. So extensive a task would take longer than one day, far longer. Another, faster way must be found.
He thought long and hard, wrapped in darkness, enveloped by Imsiba’s reproachful silence. When the answer came, the food in his stomach hardened to stone. If Azzia knew nothing, as she claimed, she would never forgive him. If she was injured, he would never forgive himself. However, if he learned the name of the man he searched for, if his Medjays could be freed of blame for the wretched goldsmith’s death, would it not be worth the sacrifice?
“I think I know a way to find the guilty man.” Bak glanced across the rooftops, saw the rising moon fully visible above the battlements. “Before I explain, we must go to the commandant’s residence-and we must waste no time.”
Imsiba looked up, startled. “You expect…what?”
“If Azzia is innocent, nothing. But if the man we wish to snare gave the gold to her…” Bak swabbed the last of his soup from the inside of the bowl with a chunk of bread, set the bowl aside, and stood up. “He took Heby’s life to silence him and he tried to slay me when he feared I’d find whatever was hidden in the goldsmith’s house. Will he not try to slay her if he thinks she might speak his name?”
Imsiba cursed his dull wits. “She’ll not remain silent if the viceroy judges her guilty of murder.” He jerked the bowl off the brazier and turned another bowl over the smoldering fuel to quench it.
Bak swallowed the bread, swept up the leaf-lined basket containing the remaining pigeons, and folded the leaves over the top. “If he tries to reach her tonight, you and I, with Pashenuro and Ruru, must be prepared to catch him.”
“If he stays far away?”
“We’ll make sure he approaches her tomorrow.”
Imsiba stared, surprised. “You’d use her as the bait in a trap?”
“Do I have a choice?” The words echoed through Bak’s heart, mocked him.
Chapter Ten
“To find me in Heby’s kitchen, looking at molds, must’ve been quite a shock,” Bak said, stifling a yawn. “If he thought before that I knew nothing of the stolen gold, he knows now for a fact that I do.”
“I hope he spent as sleepless a night as we did,” Imsiba grumbled.
A worried frown darkened Hori’s usually carefree visage. “I think you must walk the streets of this city with great care, sir.”
“He’s surely guessed I didn’t see his face. If I had, we’d have made him our prisoner many hours ago.”
They stood on the roof of the scribal office building, waiting for the lord Khepre, the rising sun, to show his face above the battlements. The city lay in the deep shadow cast by the towered wall. The sky above was a cloudless azure streaked with gold. Good-natured banter rose and ebbed around them. Twenty or more soldiers were spread across the storehouse roof, removing the sand left by the storm between the long cylindrical ridges. A second group was clearing away deep drifts which had collected on the roof of the commandant’s residence along the fortress walls. The scribal office building and the stairway rising to the battlements had been swept clean at first light.
“What if he believes you’re closer on his heels than you are?” Hori asked, his worry unabated. “Will he not try again to slay you?”
Bak gave the boy a reassuring smile. “He had every chance when I lost my way in the storm, yet he chose to return to Heby’s house. He cares more for covering his tracks, I think, than for taking a life before he feels he must.”
“He carried no weapon then, my friend,” Imsiba pointed out. “I doubt he’ll try to slay you at close quarters, but if I were wearing your sandals, I’d look to the distance and be wary of men who carry bows and arrows.”
“I pray this trap you plan will snare him,” Hori said.
Imsiba flung him a censorious scowl. “For it to work, you must wipe the cloud from your face. All those you speak with today must think you gossip with a light and innocent heart.”
Hori’s eyes widened. “I’m to have a part in this hunt?”
“You’ll lay the scent that will guide him to us.”
“I no longer have to walk through this city, asking endless questions about our own men?” As Hori spoke, his boyish face lit up as if touched by the sun. He stiffened his spine and sucked in his plump stomach. “I can lay aside my writing pallet to take up the arms of a policeman?”
Bak wished with all his heart his own worries could be so easily set aside. “You’ll use guile, not a spear. With luck your well-placed words will be far more deadly.”
Disappointment flickered across Hori’s face, replaced by curiosity and a cautious interest. “What must I do?”
Bak related his interview with Kasaya and the conclusions he had drawn.
Spotting Imsiba’s grimace when he included Harmose with the other three, he thanked the lord Amon that Hori had made no special friendships among the quartet.
“I think it fair to assume that the man we seek has guessed I know of the stolen gold, but he can’t be certain how I learned of it. You must make him believe I was set on its trail before we left the capital. Speak of the royal treasury and its overseer, Sennefer. Say nothing of gold and always talk in circles, letting him guess your meaning by what you fail to say. As if an afterthought, tell him Mistress Azzia may see her friends today, and let him know I mean to thoroughly search the commandant’s residence after her guests are gone. He must be made to think I’ve just begun to connect Nakht’s death with the gold.”
Hori’s eyes twinkled; he uttered a mischievous laugh. “I’ll chatter like a monkey, leaving those who are innocent with a pounding head and the guilty man sick with fear.”
“Don’t make him so afraid he’ll run away,” Bak cautioned. “He must be drawn to the residence, thinking to remove all signs of his theft.”
“The gold and scrolls, you mean,” Hori said.
Imsiba opened his mouth to speak, glanced at Bak, changed his mind. The risk to Azzia hung in the air between them.
Bak tried to shake off his fear for her. An unreasonable fear, he told himself. For if she knew nothing about the thefts, the man who had taken the gold had no reason to hurt her. On the other hand, if she knew of his crime and shared his guilt, her fate was already in the hands of the gods. Somehow that was no consolation.
“I may receive anyone who wishes to see me?” Azzia asked, surprised and a bit puzzled.
“As the translator Harmose said, to hold you apart from those who can comfort you is cruel and unfeeling, especially today when…” Bak paused, cursed his clumsy mouth. The last thing he wanted was to remind her of the next day’s voyage to Ma’am. “…When you need your friends, those who can share the sorrow of your husband’s death.”
