“The boat sank?” Hori asked.
“It must’ve.” Bak wrinkled his nose at the sour-smelling brownish poultice the scribe had spread on a strip of linen and was wrapping around his lacerated wrist. The knot on his head was tender to the touch and throbbed each time he bent over, his wrists felt as if they were on fire, and his bruised ribs ached; nonetheless, he felt lucky to have es caped so lightly. “Can you imagine how the farmer will feel when the water recedes and he finds a boat that large lying in his field?”
He sat with Hori and Sergeants Psuro and Pashenuro be side the hearth in the courtyard of his men’s quarters, a place he had doubted he would ever see again. His entire company of Medjays knelt and stood around them, hanging on every word. The image of the stranded boat drew their laughter, momentarily wiping away the gravity of his imprisonment.
Even Psuro, who took Bak’s capture very seriously in deed, had to smile. “After you left the vessel, you must’ve been in the water for hours.”
“I set foot on dry ground at dusk and there I collapsed, too weary to stand. Dogs came running and their barking sum moned the villagers. They cleaned my wounds and fed me, and the headman led me to a sleeping pallet. I awakened at sunrise, and thanks to the fisherman who brought me to
Waset, here I am.”
A nearly empty bowl of cold duck stew smelling strongly of onions was nestled among the dormant coals. Hori’s dog was crouched before a hole in the wall into which he had chased a mouse. Each time the tiny whiskered face peeked out, he growled softly in his throat. The quiet courtyard, the food, the dog, and especially the concern on his men’s faces warmed Bak’s heart.
Psuro’s expression turned remorseful. “I’ll never live down the shame, sir. We didn’t even miss you.”
Bak laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I told Hori I meant to spend the night with my father, and he told you.
How could you know I never reached western Waset?”
“You didn’t once contact us. Yesterday or last night. We should’ve guessed something was wrong.”
“If you had, you wouldn’t have been able to find me.”
Hori took both Bak’s hands in his and turned them one way and the other, squeezing the fingers gently. “Your hands are swollen, sir, but nothing like they must’ve been yesterday.”
“They’re stiff, but at least I can use them.” To demon strate, he tore a triangle of bread from a flattish loaf, dipped it into the bowl, and lifted out small chunks of duck, onions, and beans. He took a bite, savoring the flavor.
“If you couldn’t hold the harpoon, sir, how did you cut through the rope around your ankles?” Kasaya asked.
Bak glanced at the weapon on the ground beside him. “I laid the pole on the hatch cover and sat on it to hold it steady.
Then I propped the point on a broken cleat and pulled my feet back and forth, rubbing the rope across the barbs. I thank the lord Amon that they were sharp.”
“What of the men who snared you?” Pashenuro asked.
“You recognized one of them, you said.”
“A swarthy man with a gravelly voice. I’m fairly certain he’s Zuwapi. The others may well be crewmen on Antef’s ship, but they could as easily be ne’er-do-wells who linger at the harbor.”
The sergeant, his expression forbidding, looked around the circle of Medjays. “Captain Antef has much to answer for, and Zuwapi far more.”
A murmur of agreement swept across the courtyard.
“We must all be patient a bit longer.” Bak tore another chunk from the bread and dipped it into the stew. “While wading across all those flooded fields, I had plenty of time to think. I have an idea Zuwapi can be found somewhere along the waterfront. We’ve no authority there. The harbor patrol must seek him out.”
“Lieutenant Karoya seems a reasonable man,” Psuro said.
“Will he not let us help?”
Bak picked up the remaining piece of bread and wiped the last of the stew from the bowl. Swallowing a bite, he glanced toward the sun, midway up the morning sky. The tenth morning of the Beautiful Feast of Opet, with just one day remaining.
“Come with me and we’ll ask,” he said, rising to his feet.
He had proof of the thefts within the storehouses of Amon and would soon lay hands not only on the thieves, but on the men who had been smuggling the objects out of Kemet. He thought he knew who within Pentu’s household had at tempted to stir up trouble in the land of Hatti, but the con clusion was based on logical thinking rather than proof, and the reason behind the act eluded him. With luck and the help of the lord Amon, he would find a way to bring about a speedy resolution.
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?”
“You were not strangers to one another.” Bak gave the
Hittite a long, speculative look. “I believe Meryamon passed word to the red-haired man that the auditor Woserhet had been slain. He most likely mentioned that I’d noticed a sim ilarity between Woserhet’s death and that of Maruwa. The redhead, in turn, passed the word to you. Who did you pass it to, Zuwapi? Captain Antef?”
“Antef was a man in a hurry,” Karoya said, “pressing me to allow him to sail away from Waset. At the very least, you warned him to take care.”
Bak formed a scornful smile. “Does the red-haired man pull your strings, Zuwapi, as a child would pull a toy with movable parts?”
The Hittite’s laugh failed to conceal his resentment at be ing called a puppet. “Have you ever thought to become a teller of tall tales, Lieutenant?”
“Somehow I can’t imagine any of you-neither you nor
Meryamon nor Antef-thinking of a way to safely steal from the sacred precinct. The priest was young, too un worldly to create a plan that would go on successfully for several years. Captain Antef has no direct connection with the sacred precinct and wouldn’t know how to go about it.
You’re a foreigner who knows not the ways of the lord
Amon and the men who toil for him. Which means someone else planned the thefts. Who, Zuwapi?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Irritated with the game the Hittite was playing, Bak sig naled Kasaya, who jerked Zuwapi’s right hand toward the furnace. “Did you take the lives of Maruwa, Meryamon, and
Woserhet?”
Zuwapi flung a contemptuous look at him. “You wouldn’t dare burn me. I’ve friends in the royal house in Hattusa. Do harm to me and your sovereign would hear of their objec tions in the strongest possible terms.”
“Answer my question, Zuwapi.”
“I’ve no answer to give you. Sir!” he added in a mocking manner.
Bak nodded to Kasaya, who jerked the Hittite forward, pro pelling his hand into the mouth of the furnace. Sweat popped out on Zuwapi’s brow, his expression grew pained. Whether the intense heat of the coals had reached his hand or he simply feared being burned, his interrogators could not tell.
“Did you slay Maruwa, Woserhet, and Meryamon?” Bak demanded.
Zuwapi’s voice rose in pitch, losing its roughness. “How many times must I tell you? I’ve slain no one.”
“If you didn’t, you surely suspected their deaths were re lated to the thefts in the sacred precinct.”
“Not at first. Not until Meryamon was slain. Then…” He hesitated, appeared to reach a decision, said, “I didn’t know what to think.”
Bak did not believe him for an instant. “If you didn’t slay them, you must know who did.”
Karoya, equally skeptical, dropped his role as mediator.
He signaled Kasaya, who shoved Zuwapi’s hand closer to the burning coals.
“Don’t!” Sweat reeking of fear poured from the Hittite.
“We don’t wish to maim you,” Karoya said, “but we must if you don’t tell us who took those men’s lives.”
Kasaya shifted forward as if readying himself to shove the
Hittite’s hand onto the coals.
“Nehi.” Zuwapi stared into the furnace and swallowed hard. “He’s the man you saw, the one with red hair. He said he didn’t slay them, but he must’ve.” The Hittite’s eyes darted to ward Bak. “He’s the man who told me I must get rid of you.”
“Where can we find him?” Karoya asked.
“He toils at the harbor. He’s overseer of the men who carry newly arrived offerings from the ships to the store houses of Amon.”
At a nod from Bak, Kasaya allowed Zuwapi to pull his hand back, but not so far that his confidence would return.
Rubbing it as if it had truly been burned, the Hittite gave the two officers a wounded look. Bak could not sympathize. In spite of the pain inflicted upon him, he disliked acting the bully, but the quick results testified to its effectiveness.
“Who planned the robberies?” he asked.
Zuwapi turned morose. “I was never told, but Nehi must’ve. Either him or Meryamon.”
Bak could not credit the young priest with so important a role. “You weren’t curious?”
“I was.” Zuwapi spoke through gritted teeth, as if holding inside a resentment that had been building for months. “I tried many times to guess his name with no success, even tried prying the name from Nehi. I failed. He would say nothing. Nothing, I tell you.”