“Stop! Thief!”
Two men raced along the busy street, darting around the many people ambling among piles of produce on the ground or looking at offerings displayed in open stalls. The man in the lead carried a squawking goose under his arm; the other brandished a short wooden rod.
“Help! He’ll slay me!” the man with the bird screamed.
“Stop him!” the other yelled. “He cheated me!”
“It’s my goose. I bought it for fair exchange.”
“The wheat you gave me was moldy.”
“You added bad grain when my back was turned.”
The response was lost to the angry cackling of the goose.
The merchants within the stalls and those seated with their mounded produce, the people filling the street, many idly browsing rather than shopping, stopped to gape at the pair. Individuals peered out from the interconnected two story white-plastered buildings behind the market. Sailors on the ships moored along the waterfront ran to look. A stream of men and women had even begun to follow, unwill ing to miss an assault should the pursuer catch his quarry.
At the first angry yell, Lieutenant Bak hurried to the rail ing of the large, broad-beamed cargo ship on which he stood. Though the heavily laden vessel rode low on the wa ter, its deck rose well above the muddy escarpment, thanks to the floodwaters that lapped the roots of the few tough grasses and bushes that survived untrodden. From where he stood, he snatched glimpses of the pair speeding through the milling throng. A northerly breeze cooled the sweat trickling down his chest, dried the thin film of moisture coating his broad shoulders, and ruffled his short-cropped dark hair and the hem of his thigh-length kilt. He thought to give chase, to thwart a confrontation and see justice done. But crime along the waterfront was none of his business. The harbor patrol was responsible here. Still…
He glanced at Sergeant Imsiba standing to his right and
Troop Captain Nebwa to his left. Both men nodded and, as one, the trio hurried toward the gangplank, a wide board joining deck to land.
A sharp whistle rent the air, stopping them before they could leave the vessel. The signal was familiar, one often used by Bak’s company of Medjay policemen. Within mo ments, a unit of armed men raced out of a side lane and down the busy street. All were Medjays and each carried the black-and-white cowhide shields of the harbor patrol. They quickly encircled the man with the goose and his pursuer, disarmed the one and took the squawking evidence from the other, and led them away. The patrol officer, also a Medjay, walked along the line of stalls in search of witnesses.
Bak, Imsiba, and Nebwa moved a few paces away from the gangplank and grinned sheepishly at each other. They were no longer at the fortress of Buhen on the remote south ern frontier, where such activities were theirs to resolve.
They were in the capital city of Waset, where other men were responsible for upholding the laws of the land, thus satisfying the lady Maat, goddess of right and order.
Imsiba’s smile broadened and he clasped Bak’s upper arms, not merely as his second-in-command, but with an af fection close to that of a brother. “I’ve missed you, my friend.” The big Medjay was half a hand taller than Bak, a few years older, dark and muscular. His eyes were quick and sharp, and he moved with the ease and grace of a leopard.
Bak returned the greeting, nearly overcome with emotion.
“I can’t begin to say how happy I am to see you again.” He transferred his smile to the men and women crowding around them on the deck: his company of Medjays; Imsiba’s wife and Nebwa’s and their children; four other women wed to Medjays; his spy Nofery; and, shouldering a path through the circle, Commandant Thuty. “Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought of each and every one of you.”
Sitamon, Imsiba’s lovely wife, stepped forward to greet him with open arms, after which he knelt to hug her son. He took Nebwa’s wife, small and dark and shy, into his arms, with her small child between them. A moist-eyed Nofery, obese and no longer young, swept forward to tell him how little she had missed him and to cling to him as if he were her long-lost son. His Medjays surged around him, clasping his hands, clapping him on the back, in every way letting him know how much they liked and respected him.
Greetings over, the Medjays and women spread out over the ship, gathering their belongings. The deck, piled high with equipment and supplies, was too cramped for anyone to remain on board when other quarters were available. Bak had found a small building where his men could dwell as long as they remained in Waset, and had arranged to get food and other perishable supplies from the quartermaster of the local garrison. Thuty’s wife, who had come ahead of her husband, had arranged housing for Nebwa, Imsiba, and their families and the four Medjays’ wives.
“We feared you’d forget us.” Nebwa, his smile wide and warm, teasing, laid a hand on Bak’s shoulder. “How long has it been since you left us behind in Buhen? Two months?
Time enough to grow accustomed to the good life, to turn your back on the likes of us.” The hard-muscled, coarse featured troop captain, second-in-command to the comman dant, was a man in his early thirties. He wore a rumpled kilt, his broad beaded collar hung awry, and his hair needed combing. His appearance was deceptive. He could be crude at times and tactless, but he was a most competent and expe rienced officer.
Commandant Thuty, who had been the first to greet Bak when he boarded the ship, drew the trio to the bow, well out of the way of the Medjays and women hustling around the deck.
Bak noticed that the crew and passengers on the large and graceful traveling ship moored at the water’s edge in front of them were equally busy. The sailors were preparing the ves sel for a long stay, while a white-haired man and two young women ordered servants about and checked storage baskets and chests soon to be carried away by waiting porters. A no bleman, he guessed, and the members of his household. If the four feathers painted on the prow, symbol of the lord In heret, god of war and hunting, told true, they had come from the provincial capital of Tjeny. All were chattering like swal lows, clearly happy to reach Waset and all the good things it had to offer.
Climbing into the forecastle for a better view of the wa terfront, the commandant eyed the long row of vessels moored end to end and, farther along the river’s edge, tied together side by side four and sometimes five deep. Bak,
Nebwa, and Imsiba could see almost as well from the bow.
Naked masts rose above vessels of all sizes, the decks of most empty of cargo and passengers. Fittings squeaked, loose lines flapped, a sailor fishing from a deck whistled a merry tune. Sharp-eyed squawking crows settled on yards and masts to bask in the sun and keep an eye open for an easy meal. A pack of dogs fought, snarling and mean, over a furry object too dirty and tattered to identify.
“I’ve never seen the harbor so crowded,” Thuty said.
“There’ll be a better than usual turnout for the Beautiful Feast of Opet, I’d guess.” He was short, broad, and muscular, with heavy brows and a firm chin. The long voyage with few re sponsibilities had relaxed the normally hard set of his mouth.
“Yes, sir,” Bak nodded. “Many men have been drawn to the capital in the hope of seeing the lord Amon and our sov ereigns, Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose, the two of them together.” To find the royal pair in one place was a rare occurrence, but a measure of the importance of the Opet festival and the rituals the dual rulers would per form throughout the week, reaffirming them as the divine offspring of the lord Amon.
Imsiba eyed the crowded market, smiled. “Not to mention a desire to participate in the festivities.”
“Eleven days of revelry.” Nebwa chuckled. “There’ll be many an aching head and upset belly, I’ll wager.”
The sound of women’s laughter carried on the air, remind ing Bak of the ship moored in front of them and the many other fine traveling ships arriving in the capital. “As for men of wealth and import, our sovereigns will be holding audi ences from the second day through the tenth, giving them an opportunity to offer obeisance.” His voice grew wry. “Few will wish to be counted among the missing.”
“Don’t be impertinent, Lieutenant.” Thuty’s gruff de meanor was eased by a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll be down on my knees among them.”
“You, sir?”
“My new task as commandant of the garrison in Men nufer is an important posting. I’ll now be rubbing shoulders with men of note.”
Bak detected the hint of cynicism, as he was meant to, and smiled. “Will the rest of us remain in Waset throughout the festival? Or will we go on ahead to Mennufer?”
Thuty scowled in mock disapproval. “Do you think me a man who’d deprive you of the opportunity to take part in the merrymaking?”
“I wasn’t sure, sir,” Bak’s smile broadened, “but I had the foresight to obtain quarters for my Medjays for the length of the festival and beyond.”
The commandant tried to look stern, but a laugh burst forth to destroy the effect.
“Thuty? Is that you Thuty?”
A portly, bald man of middle years hastened down the gangplank spanning the gap between the shore and the trav eling ship moored in front of them. He wore the long kilt of a scribe and the broad collar, bracelets, and armlets of a man of wealth and consequence. Passing a young scribe, an aide
Bak assumed, and four porters with a carrying chair stand ing at the foot of the gangplank, he hurried up the waterfront to stand beside the prow of the cargo vessel.
The commandant, smiling with delight, dropped off the forecastle and strode to the railing. “Djehuty? By the grace of the lord Amon! I never thought to see you outside the walls of the royal house.”
The man chuckled. “I’m not wedded to our sovereign;
I’m a mere servant.”
“A servant of great import.” Thuty turned to his compan ions and introduced the man, adding, “Djehuty holds the wealth of Kemet within his hands. He’s the Chief Treasurer of our land.”
The impatient commands of an overseer sent laden porters filing down the gangplank of the traveling ship. The white-haired man hurried across the deck to watch, while the two women-his daughters, most likely-continued to flutter around the baggage. Their fine, stylish clothing and exquisite jewelry, the large number of servants, reinforced
Bak’s guess that this was a nobleman’s household.
The man followed the final porter to the shore and walked along the water’s edge to join Djehuty. He was as thin as the treasurer was plump, of medium height and lanky. A large bald spot showed through his otherwise thick white hair, and his eyes were a surprising blue, bits of sky transported to earth.
Djehuty introduced the commandant, explaining who he was, where he had come from, and where he was bound.
“Thuty, this is my friend Pentu, resident of Tjeny and gover nor of the province.” Tjeny was a very old city several days’ journey to the north. Although no longer as important as in the distant past, it was the capital of the province in which lay Abedju, the center of worship for the lord Osiris and the location of many ancient and revered tombs.
“Like you, I’ve known him for years,” Djehuty went on.
“Since first we came to the capital. Barely more than babes, we were, torn from our provincial homes to learn to read and write in the royal house. We clung together then in our lone liness. Now we’re men of substance, still close in spite of the different paths we’ve trod.”
Thuty in turn introduced his companions, then asked
Pentu, “You’ve come for the festival?”
“We have. This promises to be an exceptional year. As the flood was neither too high nor too low, the crops will be abundant. Maatkare Hatshepsut has much to celebrate.
She…” His eyes, drawn by the patter of leather sandals on wood, darted toward the traveling ship and the two young women walking down the gangplank.
As they approached along the waterfront, Bak could see that they were both in their mid-twenties, close to him in age. Their dark hair brushed their shoulders, and their skin was the exqui site shade and texture of the finest ivory. One was taller than the other and slimmer, but their facial features were very much alike, not beautiful by any means, but certainly handsome.
Whatever Pentu had intended to say was lost forever, as if the sight of the women had torn the thought from his heart.
He strode forward to meet them, took the hand of the taller of the two, and looked at her with an intense and utter devo tion. “Are you ready, my dear?”
“More than ready, my beloved.” She smiled prettily. “As you know, I find sailing to be quite tedious.”
She was his wife, not a daughter. Bak kept his face blank, hiding his surprise.
“I sent for a carrying chair. Will you ride or would you prefer to walk?”
Bak exchanged a quick glance with Nebwa and Imsiba.
They, like he, had assumed the Chief Treasurer had come in the chair.
“We’ll walk, at least part way.” She glanced at her sister, who smiled, then beamed at Djehuty. “It was so nice to see you again, sir. Too brief, of course, but we hope to correct that. Our house here in the city will be ready for guests within a day or two. Do bring your worthy spouse.”
“Your husband has already invited me and I’ve accepted,” the treasurer said, smiling his assurance.
Male and female servants laden with baskets and bundles hurried down the gangplank and gathered around the carry ing chair to await the women. Acknowledging their presence with a glance, Pentu’s wife said to her husband, “You won’t be long, will you, dearest?”
“I’ll catch you before you reach the house.”
Another quick smile and she turned away to walk up the street through the market. Unbidden, the servants and porters fell in behind. Shoppers and browsers stepped aside to let them pass and closed in after them, blocking them from view. Not until his wife vanished from sight did Pentu again become aware of the men with whom he had been talking.
Bak, Nebwa, and Imsiba, feeling they had no place among three such lofty individuals, slipped away as soon as they could reasonably do so. They walked through the mar ket, weaving a path through the throng and the mounds of produce, peering into stalls, thoroughly enjoying a carefree reunion.
The number of merchants had doubled over the past few days, Bak noticed, and the number of shoppers and browsers had quadrupled, swollen by those who had come from afar to attend the Opet festival. The opening procession would not take place for another week, but thanks to the uncertain ties of travel and the much larger than normal market, many celebrants came to the city well ahead of time.
The world around them hummed with voices and laugh ter. The high-pitched twittering of monkeys mimicked the squeaking of fittings, masts, and yards on the vessels moored along the water’s edge. The slow cadence of drum mers marking time for the oarsmen on passing ships echoed the louder beat of musicians playing for gifts they could trade for food. The fishy-musty smell of the river, the rancid odor of unwashed bodies, the smell of animals and their dung mingled with the aromas of spices and herbs, perfumes and aromatic oils, braised and roasted fowl and beef and lamb. Men and women from the land of Kemet, garbed in fine white linen or the roughest of fabrics worn by the poor, rubbed shoulders with individuals wearing the bright colored woolen robes of the north or the leather kilts of the south.
Nebwa and Imsiba, both doting fathers, stopped to explore a woodcarver’s stall, drawn by colorful hanging birds whose wings moved up and down when touched by the breeze. Bak stood off to the side to wait and to watch the passing crowd.
He gradually became aware of a new sound, one out of place in a busy market. The whinnying of horses. Not close enough to catch the ear of people distracted by the abun dance around them, barely audible to him. He raised his head, listened intently. Sometimes the sound vanished alto gether in the closer, louder buzz of humanity. Sometimes he heard it distinctly. The animals were unsettled, fearful. Their anxious neighing, their alarmed snorts, some distance away and not always clear, were unmistakable to a former chari otry officer such as he. They must be looked at, helped.
He peered into the woodcarver’s stall. “Nebwa, Imsiba.
I’m going on ahead. I hear horses in trouble.”
Nebwa, intent on Imsiba, who was haggling for a bird, took an instant to register the words. “Where?”
“Somewhere to the north.”
“We won’t be long.”
Bak worked his way to the water’s edge where the crowd was thinner. He ducked around sailors and porters who stood in his path, jumped over mounds of cargo and ships’ fittings when no other way was open, and broke into a fast trot when the route was clear. He slowed twice to listen, to make sure the horses were ahead, not in a side lane he might unwittingly pass. Both times he heard them, and each time their neighing was louder, more distraught. Other people had begun to notice. Most simply raised their heads to listen, a few took tentative footsteps toward the sound, a handful hurried along after him.
He sped past the last few market stalls. The street ahead was nearly empty. Most people leaving the market had taken the eastbound streets and lanes to reach their homes. The few who had come northward had gathered at the water’s edge and, talking anxiously among themselves, were look ing toward the last ship in line. Baskets overflowing with produce and bulging linen and string bags sat on the ground around their feet. Two boys of eight or so years, one with a yellow puppy in his arms, stood with the adults. Hearing the rapid patter of sandals, they all turned to see who had come.
“Do any of you know anything about horses?” one of the men asked. He pointed toward the foredeck of the ship, a great seagoing cargo vessel, with a broad hull, tall mast and sweeping yards, and what had to be a massive sail furled against the lower yard. “Look at them. If something isn’t done before long they’ll kill themselves.”
“I once was a charioteer.” Bak spoke automatically, his at tention focused on the animals on deck.
Sixteen horses, blacks and bays, each tied securely within adjoining stalls erected in front of the deckhouse. The ani mals’ neighing was loud and unnatural, sharp with alarm.
They flung their heads wildly, trying to rear up, to tear them selves free of the bounds that held them in place. Their hooves pounded the wooden deck, their flanks slammed against the plank walls of their stalls. Something on board that ship had frightened them, and that fear was building upon itself, driving them wild.
“What the…?” Nebwa slid to a halt at Bak’s side.
Imsiba ran up to join them, frowning. “Something’s very wrong, my friend. A snake, do you think?”
“Horses are valuable animals,” Nebwa growled, “much too costly to leave untended.”
“If most of the crew were given leave,” Imsiba said, “and only two or three remained, a viper would set them running fast enough.”
“Summon the harbor patrol,” Bak told the boys. “Ask if they’ve any men who know horses. We must lead them off that ship as quickly as possible, and we could use some help.”
“Yes, sir.” Wide-eyed with excitement, the one boy shoved the puppy into his mother’s arms and together they raced away.
Bak dashed up the gangplank which, he thanked the gods, had been left in place. Nebwa and Imsiba followed close on his heels. They stopped at the top and looked around, searching for the reason for the horses’ panic. Other than the animals, they saw no sign of life. No sailors, no guards, no ship’s master. Nothing but mounds of cargo lashed to the deck, none of which looked as if it had been disturbed by a man bent on theft, but all of which could hide a reptile.
A more likely place of refuge for a snake was the bow, where a dozen bags of grain were stacked in front of the forecastle beside a large mound of sheaved straw and hay. A stack of empty sacks, as well as loose grain and bits of straw and fodder littering the deck, spoke of a lengthy voyage dur ing which a considerable amount of feed had been con sumed by the horses.
Nebwa spoke aloud what they all were thinking: “Who, in the name of the lord Amon, would abandon a shipload of horses with a snake on board? You’d think they’d at least have left a man to stand watch at the gangplank while the others summoned help.”
“We must first tend to the horses. When they’re safe, we can seek an answer to that question.” Bak’s eyes raked the deck, settled on a tunic someone had flung onto the forecas tle railing. He scooped it up, swung around, and eyed his two friends, neither of whom had any knowledge of horses.
“Find a dead end lane in which we can hold these animals,
Imsiba.”
“Yes, my friend,” the Medjay said and hurried off.
Bak turned to Nebwa. “If I can calm them one at a time, can you lead them to Imsiba?”
“Just tell me what I must do,” the troop captain growled, eyeing the animals with undisguised mistrust. He had grown to manhood on the southern frontier and had dwelt there al ways. He had never been near a horse in his life.
Thanking his friend with a grim smile, Bak walked slowly to the closest stall, speaking softly to the horse inside, a bay mare with a white blaze between her eyes. She looked to be carrying young. Nebwa stood a couple paces away, scanning the deck, ready to lash out with his baton of office should a snake slither through the loose straw spread on the floor of the stalls.
Bak had no idea how tame the mare was-or any of the other horses, for that matter. The ship was built and fitted like a vessel of Kemet, but since far more horses were im ported than exported, he suspected they had been brought from some distant land. Which meant the mare had been on board for some time. As far as he was concerned, no sane man would ship a wild horse for any distance at all.
Therefore, he had to assume she was fairly tame, at least partly trained, and somewhat trustful of man.
Throwing the tunic, which smelled of sweat, over his shoulder, willing himself to forget the snake, to concentrate on the one horse and ignore the others, the noise they were making, their terror, he held out a hand. The mare pulled away, whinnied with fear. He forced himself to be patient, to speak softly, gently, revealing no hint of how anxious he was to get her out of that stall, how much he feared the other an imals would work themselves into so frenzied a state that one or more would break a leg or knock down a wall and do serious damage to itself and another.
Slowly, oh so slowly the mare began to calm down. He sensed that the horse in the next stall was also growing qui eter, a good sign that no snake was close by. Again he held out a hand, offering friendship. The mare whinnied in fright, but did not back off. He cautiously leaned over the wall and reached for her rope halter. She jerked away. He remained where he was, leaning toward her, hand held out between them, and continued to speak to her, to cajole her. At last she turned her head and warily sniffed his hand. Soothing her with gentle words, he caught hold of the halter, eased her head around, and rubbed her muzzle.
In no time at all, she allowed him into the stall. He hated to blind her, but decided he couldn’t trust her outside the en closure and especially on the gangplank. He flung the tunic over her head. Talking all the while, he led the trembling mare out of the stall, across the deck, and onto the gang plank. She snorted and held back as she felt the slope be neath her hooves, but she obeyed.
Nebwa, who had spoken not a word throughout, followed them onto the shore, staying well clear lest he frighten the horse. A unit of harbor patrolmen awaited them at the bot tom of the gangplank. The officer who stood at their head or dered the men back, giving the mare plenty of room and no reason to fear. With solid ground beneath her feet and Bak’s soothing voice filling her ears, her trembling subsided. He tore the tunic from her head and handed her over to Nebwa who, talking to her as gently as Bak had, led her to the mouth of a narrow lane where Imsiba waited.
The patrol officer came forward and identified himself as
Lieutenant Karoya. He was a tall, slim young Medjay who had a tribal tattoo on his left upper arm. “Well done, sir.”
“I hope some of your men know horses, Lieutenant.
We’ve fifteen more to take off that ship.”
“I’ve three men who can help. All served as archers in the regiment of Amon and were assigned to chariotry compa nies.” Beckoning the trio, he studied the ship and its excited cargo. “Have you any idea what’s frightening them, sir?”
“A snake, we think. We’ll need three or four men with cudgels to keep watch.”
A half hour later, Bak led the last animal off the ship.
“Now,” he said to Karoya, “let’s see what made those horses so afraid.” He let his eyes travel over the empty stalls and the hay and grain at the bow. “The lord Amon alone knows what we’ll find.”
The young officer nodded. “I saw the ship arrive this morning, a couple of hours before you summoned me, but I paid no heed after that. With so many people coming early for the festival and the market so busy…” He smiled rue fully. “Well, you can imagine how it is, sir. Many vile crimi nals have come to prey upon the law-abiding.”
A harbor patrolman took the horse from Bak and led it to the mouth of the dead end lane. There several other mem bers of the harbor patrol were preparing to lead the calmed and willing animals to the garrison stables, where they would be cared for until their owner could be found. Nebwa, whose lofty rank would cut short any official resistance, would go with them.
Bak suggested that he, Karoya, Imsiba, and a half dozen harbor patrolmen conduct a sweeping search of the deck, be ginning at the bow. After the young officer sent the rest of his men off to keep an eye on the market, they crossed the gangplank and walked forward.
While his mates stood by, brandishing their cudgels, one of the harbor patrolmen took up the long pole used to probe the depths of the river so the vessel would not run aground and prodded the sheaves of fodder and hay in front of the forecastle. A low moan sounded from within the mound.
Bak and the others looked at each other, startled. The patrol man cautiously dug away the straw. In moments, he exposed two sailors bound tightly together. Both were senseless, but one had begun to come around.
Bak exchanged a worried glance with Imsiba and Karoya.
No snake had attacked these men. They had no doubt been left to guard the cargo. If the horses, as valuable as they were, had not been taken, what else of value had been on board?
Leaving Imsiba to bring the sailors to their senses and the patrolmen to continue their sweep of the deck, Bak hurried sternward. The smells of hay and manure dwindled as he walked alongside the deckhouse, a lightweight, portable structure built of slim poles walled and roofed with colorful reed mats woven in a chevron pattern. In air less pungent, he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar metallic odor. Mutter ing an oath, he swept aside the mat that covered the doorway and looked inside. The interior was gloomy, heavily shad owed, but the man on the floor lay in the long slab of light that entered through the opening. Bak had no doubt he was dead. His throat had been cut, the wound deep and gaping.
His head and upper body lay in a pool of drying blood.
Smelling death, the horses had panicked.
“Karoya!” he called.
Taking care not to step in the reddish puddle, he knelt be side the body. The weapon was nowhere in sight, but it had to have been fairly long and very sharp and the man who wielded it strong.
Karoya pounded up the deck. He peeked inside, spat out a curse, and tore several mats off the wall to allow more light to fall on the scene. The body was that of a man of about forty years. His light brown hair was held back from his broad, clean-shaven face in a single thick braid that lay coiled in the blood. He wore a long-sleeved, knee-length tu nic fastened at the shoulders with ornamental bronze pins. A gold signet ring adorned the middle finger of his right hand; he wore several plain gold bangles on his left wrist and an amuletic pendant around his neck.
“A man of Hatti,” Bak said.
“Maruwa, he’s called.” Karoya swallowed hard, looked away from the body. He appeared close to being sick. “I should’ve guessed when I saw the horses that he’d come back to Kemet.”
Bak pretended not to notice the younger officer’s discom fort. “You know him?”
“I’ve seen him here at the harbor, but that’s all. He came regularly-every six months or so-to bring animals from the land of Hatti to revitalize the bloodline in the royal sta bles.”
The shadow of a man fell over the body. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “That’s Maruwa! What’s happened?
Where are his horses? Where are the sailors I left on guard?”
Karoya caught the man’s arm and forced him back, away from the deckhouse. “This is Captain Antef, sir. Master of this ship.” He stared hard at the seaman. “Where have you been, sir? Where are all your men?”
The captain, a once-handsome man going to fat, stiffened his spine, pulled his head back, and stretched to his greatest height. “I did as I always do, as regulations require. I went to customs to report our arrival, to give them a copy of the manifest and arrange for an inspector to come aboard as quickly as possible.” He glared at Bak. “Who are you?
What’s happened here? Did someone steal Maruwa’s horses, slay him?”
By this time, the search party had realized something was wrong other than a snake and they, too, had come to the deckhouse.
“Where are the members of your crew?” Bak asked the captain.
“Why should I tell you? I don’t know you. As far as I know, you’ve no business here at all.”
“Answer the question!” Karoya snapped.
Antef flung a resentful glance at the Medjay officer. “I left two men on guard and permitted the rest to leave the ship. I saw no reason for them to remain. Maruwa said he’d stay behind to look after his horses, and the rest of the cargo was of no exceptional value.”
“When did you last see Maruwa?” Bak asked.
“I bade him good-bye as I left the ship. He was on deck, tending the animals.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two hours at most. Probably less.”
“The men told us they were struck from behind and that’s the last they remember,” Bak said. “They had no idea how long ago, but sailors on a nearby ship last noticed them and Maruwa about a half hour before the horses began to fret.”
Mai, the harbormaster, paced the length of his second story office and back again to stand before the broad open ing in the wall that looked out upon the harbor. He stared at the ships and the people wandering through the market, but the grim expression on his face told the men who stood be fore him that his thoughts were with the dead man. “The reason for the slaying could not have been a theft gone wrong?”
Karoya shook his head. “The most valuable of the cargo, the horses, were there, and according to Captain Antef…”
The young officer glanced at the ship’s master, standing be tween him and Bak. “… Maruwa was wearing the only jew 18
Lauren Haney elry he brought on board. All the pieces were made of gold.
A thief could’ve taken them with ease.”
“But did not.” The harbormaster was a tall, stout man with a fringe of curly white hair. Lines of worry cut deep into his brow. “Nothing else was disturbed?”
“I saw no sign that the cargo had been rifled by men in pursuit of wealth that wasn’t there,” Antef said.
Mai gave the captain a thoughtful look. “I’ve never known you to transport cargo that didn’t pay for itself.”
Antef stiffened, indignant. “Belowdecks, we carried cop per ingots and stone ballast. On deck we carried grain, hay, and straw for the horses in addition to leather goods and woolen textiles popular with the people who come from less temperate lands to dwell in Kemet. All of sufficient worth to give a profit, none valuable enough to kill for.”
Mai dropped onto a low chair placed so he could keep an eye on the harbor and at the same time look at the men with whom he spoke. “If not theft, then why mark Maruwa for death? He was as diligent and industrious as any man I’ve ever met.”
“Politics.” Antef’s response was prompt and certain. “He may’ve gotten himself involved in Hittite politics, and we all know how dangerous that can be.”
“Antef could well be right.” Mai took a deep drink of beer and set the jar on a low table beside his chair. “Hittite poli tics are like quicksand: deceptively placid when left un touched, but slippery, avaricious, and deadly when trod upon.”
Bak, seated on a stool before the harbormaster, whom he had met some weeks earlier, sipped from his own jar of beer.
He licked the thick, slightly gritty foam from his lips. “Did you know him well, sir?”
“Evidently not as well as I believed.” Mai, who had thrown aside formality after Antef had gone, grinned like a boy caught with his fingers in a honey jar. “He discovered I like olives, the ripe black ones cured in brine. Each time he imported horses, he brought several jars to me.” He reached for his beer jar, hesitated. “You didn’t happen to find any on board, did you?”
“No, sir,” Karoya said, with a hint of a smile. He occupied a stool beside Bak. “I’ll have my men look. If they see them, we’ll bring them to you.”
“I’d be most appreciative.” Mai drank again and rested the jar between his thighs, all hint of humor vanishing. “I thought Maruwa unconcerned with the politics of his home land, but perhaps I erred.”
“He never spoke of such things?” Bak asked.
“Never.” Mai looked out at the harbor, his expression sad.
“I’ve heard from other men who’ve traveled to that far-off land that its politics are always volatile, with bad blood among various factions, some loyal to the past king, some to the present king, and some agitating for a new king. As a re sult, few men hold the throne for long, and when they’re un seated, all who share their power are also deposed.” He laughed harshly. “If they’re lucky. Many are slain and their families with them, so they say.”
Karoya shuddered. “A cruel, harsh land, sir.”
A long silence ensued while the three men thanked the gods that they lived in a land where murder was an offense to the lady Maat and, while not unheard of at the highest levels of power, was not as common as in less enlightened lands.
“The horses will have to be moved from the garrison to the royal stables,” Bak said. “I’ll speak with Troop Captain
Nebwa, and he’ll see the task completed.”
“Good,” Mai said, nodding approval. His eyes darted to ward Karoya. “Maruwa was slain here at the harbor, Lieu tenant, so his death falls under your jurisdiction. You must do all you can to snare the slayer.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
The harbormaster’s eyes slid toward Bak. “How long will you remain in Waset, Lieutenant?”
“We’ll not sail until the Opet festival ends.”
“I know I’ve no business to ask before gaining the ap proval of your commandant, but would you be willing to as sist Karoya, should he need your help?”
“I’d be glad to, sir.”
Later, as Bak walked along the waterfront after bidding good-bye to Mai and Karoya, he admitted to himself how disappointed he was that another man held the responsibility for tracking down and snaring the one who had slain the Hit tite merchant. He knew he would be at a disadvantage in searching for a killer in an alien community in a city he no longer knew well, but the challenge tempted.