by Lauren Haney
Simut set the gray vessel on the floor and lifted the buff jar high, meaning to slip it into the space from which he had taken it. Noticing its gaping mouth, he made an impatient sound with his tongue and set it down beside the other.
"My nephew vanished in that storm, you know, a youth as close to me as a son."
"I didn't know." Bak eyed him with interest. "Do you resent those who returned, Djehuty among them?"
"No longer, but at the time I did. To lose so fine a young man, one beloved by all who knew him. So brave, so..." Simut's voice faltered and he gave a cheerless little laugh. "Djehuty was always one who knew better than anyone else, even when we played together as children, but in this case? No, no man can be blamed for the fury of the gods."
"I rememlVr the men returning from the storm," Khawet said, pity clouding her face. "I'd gone to Nubt for a few days, to my father's estate. Most who survived wandered out of the desert near there-or farther north. Close to death, they were. Burned by the sun, thirsty, starving, so worn they could barely put one foot in front of another."
"Your father among them," Bak said.
"He survived, yes, and each day that's since gone by, I've thanked the lord Khnum."
She stood at the side of a small, square courtyard, watching four young women bent over limestone mortars sunk into the floor, pounding grain with stone pestles. Lengths of newly washed linen stretched across a dozen or so heavy rope lines shaded them from the merciless midafternoon sun but provided no relief from the heat. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and stained their dresses. The heavy odor of crushed grain failed to mask the smell of their bodies.
"Far more men died than lived," Bak said. "In a small, tight world like Abu, where most who manned the garrison at that time came from families who've lived in this province for generations, there must still exist many friends and relatives of those who were lost."
"I was most impressed when I heard of the patterns you saw in the slayings, but in this case?" She touched him lightly on the arm, then quickly withdrew her hand. "A man would have to be terribly bitter to seek revenge after so long a time."
He no longer mistook the gesture as a sign of intimacy, as he had been inclined to do before. She must habitually touch others, he thought, or in this case was merely displaying regret that her opinion differed from his. "I've found no other tie binding Nakht and the three men."
The sound of male and female laughter drew her eyes toward a wooden gate standing ajar at the rear of the court. "I must get on with my duties. The bakers and brewers toiling beyond that wall await direction." She remained where she stood, letting him know she preferred he leave so she could carry out the remainder of her tasks alone. "What of Hatnofer? How was she linked to those who survived the storm?"
"I'd hoped you could answer that question. I've been told you knew her better than anyone."
"I knew her, yes, but she never confided in me." "Did you not tell me she was a mother to you?"
Her voice grew sharp, annoyed. "She never ceased to treat me as a child, Lieutenant."
He suspected her anger was directed at the dead woman, not him. Lest he err, he attempted a smile, hoping to disarm her, but a whiff of crushed grain made him sneeze. "What of her family?" he managed, and a second sneeze overwhelmed him.
A fleeting smile acknowledged his discomfort. "She was a foundling, a babe left on my father's doorstep in Nubt. If she had a family in Abu or Swenet-or anywhere else, for that matter-she never knew them." Glancing at the gate, she ed~,ed away from him. "I must go. With Hatnofer no longer here, I've no time to linger."
"One more question," he said, stopping her flight with an upraised hand. "Of all those who have the freedom to walk through this compound, who had close friends or relatives that vanished in the desert?"
"Most of the servants lost men near and dear, as did the guards. I know Amethu, Simut, and Ineni lost someone close, and I believe Antef did. I, too, cared for men who never returned: lieutenants Amonemhab, Nebmose, Minnakht, and Neferhotep. I miss them even now, all in the prime of life, lost forever to the wind and the sand."
Again she briefly touched his arm. Turning away, she hastened across the court and out the gate, which she swung closed behind her. Bak watched her go, sympathizing with her plight. No wonder she was irritable, he thought; she had every right to be. She had, only two days before, found the body of a woman as close to her as a mother, and she was now burdened with that woman's duties in addition to her own. She was mistress of a household ruled by a man who appeared to Bak impossible to please and was wed to a husband she seemed not to love.
"Kasaya's fallen in love?" Bak chuckled. "Not again!" "This time he'll be lucky to escape a free man," Psuro said, grinning. "The girl toils in the governor's kitchen, where she's student to the chief cook-her mother. The old
woman's the best I've come upon in many a year, and she's stuffing Kasaya like a goose being force-fed for slaughter." Walking side-by-side, laughing, they turned a corner into the lane that would take them to their quarters. Failing sunshine lighted the upper edges of the taller buildings, while the deep shadow of dusk filled the narrow walkway. The odors of fish and onions, of herbs and cooking oil, wafted down from the rooftops, as did the soft voices of families enjoying their evening meal.
"Does he realize how dangerous his position is?" Bak managed.
Psuro shook his head. "He's too busy shoving food into his mouth to think of the consequences."
Stifling laughter as best he could, Bak stopped in front of their quarters and shoved aside the mat hanging over the door. The room lay in deep shadow, the objects inside losing color and definition. "Djehuty has an estate at Nubt. If you see a crisis on the horizon, I'll send Kasaya downriver, out of harm's way."
"Yes, sir," Psuro said, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand.
"Where'd you put the lamp?" "Inside the door, to the right."
Bak spotted three palm-sized baked clay dishes on the floor, fresh wicks rising from puddles of oil. He scooped one up and handed it to the Medjay. "I saw light in a house halfway down the block."
The Medjay nodded and hurried down the lane. Rather than take the time to start a fire using a small drill and kindling, he would borrow the neighbor's lamp to light his own. Bak rolled the mat up, letting air and the meager natural light into the house, and tied it with a sturdy cord. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, he sensed that someone had entered the house during their absence. He stopped dead still, thinking of the fish he had found the night before, the warning he suspected it conveyed. The last thing he had expected was another such gift.
Psuro came up behind him, lamp flaming. "Our evening meal," he said, looking over Bak's shoulder, his eyes on the two stools Amethu had furnished, one stacked upside-down on top of the other, with a large covered basket perched atop the three legs. "I hope the old woman included some meat or fowl. I'm starving." Not overly fond of cooking, he had persuaded an elderly widow he had met at the public well to provide their meals.
Bak eyed the basket, towering above the other furnishings, safe from. mice and rats, insects, and whatever else might be tempted. Its presence failed to suppress a strong feeling of unease. His eyes darted around the room, skipping over patches of light, probing shadows, coming to rest on the lower steps of the stairway leading to the roof and an object impossible to see clearly from where he stood. With the fish foremost in his thoughts, he bounded across the room. "Spawn of Apep!" he snarled.
A clay doll hung head-down off the lowest step, an arrow with the shaft broken off protruding from its breast. The image, he had no doubt, represented Montu, the spearman who supposedly fell down the stairs and onto his own weapon.
Psuro came up beside him and held the light close. He muttered something in his own tongue, too long to be a simple oath, more likely an incantation against whatever malign force had caused the doll to be brought into their quarters.
Bak preferred a more common sense approach. He picked up the image to examine
it. The eyes were mere slits, probably made with a fingernail; the nose a bit of clay pinched to stand out from the otherwise featureless face. The body was cylindrical, its stick-like arms and legs held in place with straw. The arrowhead was flint, with nothing remaining of the shaft but a japed stub of wood. The image was so recently molded it felt cool and damp to the touch, though no longer soft.
"I wish I knew what message this was meant to deliver, Psuro."
"It can only be a threat," the Medjay said, eyeing the doll with distaste.
Bak's voice turned wry. "Would not a note be more direct?"
"I doubt the man who brought it knows how to write." Bak stared at the figure, unconvinced. The fish with the stone was simple but direct, and so was the doll. The delivery of such items required imagination, not the plodding thought processes of the poor and uneducated. As before, he felt he was being teased, the slayer toying with him to prove ... what? To prove himself superior in thought and deed? Probably, but something else, too: this blatant intrusion into his quarters was meant to intimidate, to frighten.
One thing was clear: he would have to post one of his men here each evening. The thought grated. He had not sufficient manpower to waste on a task that might prove futile. If only he had more men, more Medjays from Buhen, men he trusted.
Chapter Seven
"I'm fairly certain the storm is the key to the murders, but you mustn't allow my belief to blind you to other possibilities."
"Yes, sir," Psuro and Kasaya said in unison.
Bak fastened his belt clasp over the small, neat knot holding his kilt in place and stepped into woven-reed sandals. "More than anything else, I'd like to talk to someone who came back alive, one who saw more of his fellows during the tempest than did Lieutenant Amonhotep."
"When I wandered around the caravan encampment yesterday, I talked to more than a dozen traders." Psuro, long ago up and dressed, sat down on the stairway and lifted several leaves covering a tightly woven basket brought by the old woman he had hired to cook for them. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread wafted across the room. "A few had heard of a company of soldiers lost in the desert, but in a vague sort of way. None connected the tale to Abu."
"Not surprising," Bak said, tugging down the hem of his kilt, making it even all around. "Most are outsiders, men who remain only long enough to pass on to a ship the trade goods they've brought from far to the north or south." He reached for an intricate bronze chain from which hung several faience amulets, the most prominent among them the lord Horns of Buhen and the lady Maat. "No, you must query men and women who've lived in this province for many years. Not an easy task, I warn you. Half the people I spoke with yesterday resorted to talk of the gods or demons or some other malign force when I mentioned the storm. And the two guards, Kames and Nenu, hinted that the men in the garrison may've been ordered to remain silent."
Psuro offered a round, crusty roll to Bak and threw a second to Kasaya, sitting cross-legged on his sleeping pallet. The young Medjay caught it with a grin. "If I'd come back from that storm alive and suddenly I saw my fellow survivors falling to the earth like overripe fruit, I'd turn my back on Abu and walk as fast and far as I could."
"Nakht and Lieutenant Dedi weren't survivors," Psuro scoffed. "They weren't even here then. They were both too young to march off to battle. So who would think to connect them to Montu and Senmut?"
Kasaya, not in the least miffed, shot the roll back to Psuro. "Lieutenant Bak did."
Psuro raised his arm, preparing to return the missile. Bak gave him a long, hard look. With a sheepish smile, the stocky Medjay lowered the roll, broke it apart, and took a bite.
"Go see the chief scribe, Psuro. I asked him yesterday to prepare a list of all who survived the storm. He should have their names ready and waiting." Bak glanced around, searching for the document Commandant Thuty had prepared, giving him authority in Abu. He intended to visit the garrison records center and take a look at scrolls unavailable to the average officer. If Troop Captain Antef was not there, or if he refused to give permission, Thuty's message should open the door. "Mark off those who're no longer among the living and find out what happened to the remainder."
"And pray to the lord Amon that at least one man still lives," Kasaya said. "
"And that he lives close by," Psuro added.
Garrison headquarters was located in a row of interconnected houses across a narrow lane from the two-story barracks building. The dwellings had been altered over the years by the addition or removal of walls, and doors had been cut to allow free movement throughout the block. The sole structure that remained relatively unchanged was the commander's residence, an unadorned two-story house with offices on the ground floor and living quarters above.
After spending over a year within the high, fortified walls of Buhen, Bak had trouble reconciling himself to the idea of a garrison without walls, one surrounded by places of business and crowded residential blocks. Especially since Abu had once been the southernmost city in the land of Kemet, a frontier city from which armies set off for what were then wild and untamed lands farther south, paving the way for trading expeditions led by the stout-hearted governors of the province. Men Djehuty wanted very much to claim as ancestors.
A guard posted in the entryway of the commander's residence directed him through the columned audience hall to a rectangular chamber in which a half dozen scribes toiled. There he introduced himself to the chief scribe, who sat on the floor facing the others. The lesser scribes studied him furtively, any stranger a welcome distraction.
"I understand Troop Captain Antef has gone to the quarry," Bak said.
"That's right, sir. He left soon after daybreak. There was an accident. A heavy section of stone fell on a man's leg." The chief scribe, a slight man of medium height with a small birthmark on his neck, scowled in a vain effort to conceal his distress. "If the tale the messenger told was accurate, the limb is crushed and he'll lose it."
And probably his life, Bak thought with a shudder. Such injuries were almost impossible for a physician to treat. Only the gods.could intervene. "I'll speak with Antef later, then. In the meantime,.i'd like to look at several documents you're sure to have filed away among your records."
The scribe shook off his distraction over the injured soldier and frowned. "I'm sorry, sir, but without the troop captain's approval, you can see nothing."
Bak handed him the scroll prepared by Thuty. The clerk read the document and read it again a second time. With an almost imperceptible sigh of resignation, he rolled it up and gave it back. "What do you wish, sir?"
"First, the daybook containing entries about a sandstorm that occurred five years .ago, the storm from which most of the men in this garrison failed to return. I'd also like to see the official report of the catastrophe. And I wish to look at the daybooks for the past two months." Those would include the entries made on the days the deaths occurred in the governor's household and any related items of interest.
The scribe allowed himself a brief, curious glance. "If you'll wait in the audience hall, sir, I'll bring them right away."
Bak followed his suggestion, seating himself on a wooden bench built against one wall of the hall. Scribes came and went, sergeants reported to junior officers, the chief armorer came in to complain about the poor quality of spears received from the capital. Most glanced Bak's way and dismissed him, thinking him just another officer passing through Abu.
In a surprisingly short time, the chief scribe presented him with a basket containing several scrolls and hastened back to his flock. Bak thumbed through the documents until he found the official report of the tempest, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Djehuty, as garrison commander, had prepared the scroll more than a week after the storm, after the last of the survivors had returned to Abu. It went into considerable detail, a bland, sometimes officious accounting, giving away nothing that would discredit Djehuty or his troops. No surprises there.
He took up the appropriate
daybook and scanned its entries. References to the storm were short acid succinct. The loss of over one hundred men and more than sixty donkeys was dealt with in a cursory, almost offhand manner that angered him in its easy dismissal of their lives.
Setting aside the documents related to the storm, he pulled the remaining scrolls out of the basket and sorted them by date. They proved to be disappointing, to say the least. Since none of the victims were assigned to the garrison and none of the murders had occurred there, the incidents were not referred to in any way.
Bak climbed a gradual slope, a rolling stretch of golden sand softened by the passage of many feet and warmed by the morning sun. Ahead, a hump of reddish stone protruded from the barren landscape, breaking the horizon to the left and right for at least two hundred paces. Men reduced to stick-like figures by distance and heat waves toiled on the face of the outcrop, one of several granite quarries located in the desert south of Swenet. A smaller assemblage, stripped down to loincloths, clustered on the sand at the base of the rock face, surrounding a large object impossible to see with so many men shielding it from view. Two stood slightly apart-Troop Captain Antef, Bak assumed, and a scribe.
As he drew near, plodding ankle-deep through the sand, another man, a sergeant most likely, emerged from among the workmen-troops from the garrison pressed to do duty at the quarry. Striding toward Antef, the man spotted Bak and pointed. The troop captain swung around, placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head. Bak could not see his features, but disgust was apparent in his stance.
He was surprised Antef would show disregard for a fellow officer in front of his men. He felt sure the aversion was not directed at him but at the task he must perform, the questions he must ask. Nonetheless, he resented being the recipient of such a display. Feigning indifference, he narrowed the gap between them. The men on the outcrop paid no heed to his approach; those close by sneaked glances his way; curious.
"Troop Captain Antef," he said. "May I have a word?" "Lieutenant Bak," Antef said, aping the police officer's tone. "A word,-yes. I've no time for a lengthy discourse." Bak looked pointedly at the men on the outcrop, all going about their business under the expert direction of a half dozen chief quarrymen, and the men standing nearby, idling around what looked like a greater than lifesize, unfinished statue of the lord Osiris or, more likely, Maatkare Hatshepsut as one with Osiris. Details of face and figure had not yet been carved and it lacked the final polish, both of which would be done when it reached its final destination in faroff Waset.
