Most of the cargo vessels moored along the waterfront had arrived long before the Beautiful Feast of Opet began, al lowing plenty of time to unload before the temptations of the festival drew crews and workmen away from more serious endeavors. As a result, Bak thought it best to start their search for Nehi in the sacred precinct.
“It can’t be true.” Nebamon, overseer of the storehouses from which many of the ritual objects had been stolen, flung a perplexed look at Bak, Karoya, and Thanuny. “Meryamon was such a nice young man, so helpful. Utterly devoted to the lord Amon.”
“We believe he not only took objects over an extended pe riod of time, but he also altered the records to hide his wrongdoing and that of another man.” The auditor tapped a large scroll-filled basket, so heavy the servant carrying it had both arms wrapped firmly around it. “Each and every docu ment in this container has been tampered with.”
“So many?” Nebamon gulped.
Bak glanced at Sergeant Psuro, standing in the doorway of the small walled courtyard, barring entry or exit. He did not mistrust Nebamon, but thought it best to take precau tions lest he erred. “We believe Nehi, in his position as over seer of the workmen who carry offerings from incoming ships to the storehouses of Amon, was also making off with items meant to be used in the sacred rituals.”
“Nehi?” Nebamon frowned, doubtful. “A most congenial man. All who know him like him.”
“When I spoke with you several days ago, I told you of a red-haired man I saw you talking with while standing in the courtyard in front of Ipet-resyt. The opening procession had entered the sacred precinct and there you were, side by side, watching a group of Hittite acrobats. That man had to have been Nehi, yet when I asked, you denied knowing him.”
“Did I?” Nebamon raised both hands and ran his fingers through the curly white hair above his ears. “I don’t remem ber seeing him there-the courtyard was teeming with peo ple, if you recall-but perhaps we exchanged a few trifling words.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Come with me. We must ask the scribe who deals with these people.”
“I should’ve guessed he dwelt here.” Bak stood outside the gate through which he and Amonked had, ten days be fore, entered the sacred precinct to view Woserhet’s body.
He eyed the blank white walls of the interconnected houses that lay in the shadow of the massive wall surrounding the lord Amon’s domain. He remembered well chasing the red haired man through that confusing warren of narrow lanes.
“Where do we go from here?”
Psuro could neither read nor write, but his memory was faultless. “According to the scribe, we enter the leftmost lane, turn right at the second intersection, left at the next lane, pass beneath a wooden lintel, and turn right again at the next intersecting lane. His dwelling will be behind the fourth doorway to the right.”
Signaling the sergeant to lead the way, Bak followed with
Karoya. A dozen of his Medjays and an equal number of harbor patrolmen hurried after them. Upon learning where
Nehi dwelt, he had suggested they summon extra men.
He stopped at the lintel, while Psuro went on ahead, and gathered the men around. “You all know what you’re to do, but I must warn you.” He looked from one to another, his ex pression stern. “He knows these lanes far better than we do.
If he runs, don’t follow him in a line like cattle being led to slaughter. Spread out into the surrounding lanes. We must not let him get away.”
They melted into the shadows of a nearby lane, where they waited in silence until Psuro returned.
“He’s home,” the sergeant reported. “Sleeping late after a night of revelry, so says an old woman in the adjoining house.”
Bak thanked the lord Amon that they would not have to lie in wait. “Let’s go.”
The sergeant and a dozen men hurried off to surround the block. Karoya took six others to close off the nearby lanes.
Bak and the remainder waited. When they heard two short, sharp whistles, Psuro’s signal and Karoya’s, they strode to ward the fourth doorway to the right. They were a dozen steps away when the red-haired man stepped into the lane, yawning, scratching his head. He saw Bak, his mouth dropped open, he spun around and leaped inside. Bak plunged into the dark dwelling, glimpsed his quarry at the top of the stairs leading to the roof. Yelling to his men to spread out and watch the doors of the other houses, he raced upward.
Nehi sped across the flat, white rooftop, leaping over bas kets and bowls; bounding over fish laid out to dry; veering around small pavilions occupied by women spinning and weaving, grinding grain, and performing innumerable other household tasks while they tended their small children. He reached the opposite side of the block, looked down into the lane, saw the men below and cried out an oath. He ran to the right and looked into a side lane. Seeing more men waiting to snare him, he slumped down onto the roof, head bowed, gasping for breath. Bak called for manacles and within mo ments Nehi was their prisoner.
As soon as Bak got his first good look at Nehi, he knew the redhead had played no major role in the robberies. He was, like Meryamon, less than twenty years of age. “You knew Meryamon.”
The young man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowed tears. The unexpected capture, the mere threat of burning, had completely unmanned him, turning him into the sobbing child he once had been. “We grew to manhood together. In Abedju. We were childhood playmates, the best of friends.”
He seemed so lacking in guile, so genuine, that Bak al most sympathized with him. Almost. “The two of you stole many valuable objects from the lord Amon.”
“We stole, yes.” Sniffing back tears, Nehi spoke out read ily, a young man eager to please men more senior in age and rank. “Each time I saw a ritual vessel or a jar of aromatic oil or anything else of value, if I could find a way to take it un seen, I did so. Meryamon took objects from the storehouses themselves, and he also altered the records so no one would know of his crime or mine.”
“Where did you hide the items you stole?”
“I took them to a storehouse near the waterfront. There the Hittite trader Zuwapi held the goods he meant to trans port to Ugarit and beyond. Meryamon stayed well clear, wanting no one to see him in the company of the foreigner.”
Bak signaled Kasaya, who allowed the prisoner to scuttle backward a couple of paces away from the furnace. He wanted sufficient heat to reach the prisoner to remind him of what he faced should he fail to talk. Between the furnace, the hot breath of the lord Re reaching into the sun-baked courtyard, and the never-ending sobbing, thirst might well become a more effective threat than Nehi’s fear of burning.
“Why did he wish to keep his distance?”
The redhead sniffled. “He thought it best, so he said.”
“How long have these thefts been going on?” Karoya asked.
“About three years. A long time.”
A buzz of voices rose beneath the lean-to, where Bak’s men and the harbor patrolmen knelt or sat in the shade. To steal a little from a god was a small sin, to steal so much for so long was horrendous.
Thanks to the diligence of Hori and Thanuny while searching the archives, Bak was not surprised, merely puz zled. If Karoya’s expression told true, he was equally per plexed. “Meryamon dwelt within the sacred precinct and had neither property nor riches. From the appearance of your dwelling, you also are without wealth. What did the two of you gain from these robberies?”
“Our portion was being held for us in Ugarit. There we meant to end our days in luxury.” Nehi burst into tears, his voice shook with anguish. “Now Meryamon has gone to the netherworld and I’m your prisoner, no doubt soon to die for taking what by rights belonged to the lord Amon. The end less fear of being caught, the constant expectation of wealth beyond measure. All for nothing.”
A fitting end for men who offend the lady Maat, Bak thought, but theft, in this case, was only one of several heinous acts. “Did you slay Maruwa? The Hittite who traded in horses?”
“No,” Nehi sobbed. “I didn’t even know the man.”
Bak signaled Kasaya, who stepped closer to the prisoner, looming over him, more threatening than words.
“I didn’t slay him. I swear I didn’t!”
“What of Woserhet and Meryamon?” Karoya demanded.
“Did you take their lives?”
“No!” Nehi stared at the fiery embers visible within the mouth of the furnace. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. “I was appalled to hear of Woserhet’s death. I knew so vile a crime would bring the wrath of the gods upon us. And when I learned Meryamon was slain…” He could barely talk, so wracked was he by sobs. “He was my friend, closer than a brother.”
Could a man pretend such sorrow, Bak wondered, such torment? “You dwell a short distance from the sacred precinct, with an unguarded gate close to hand. The store house where Woserhet died was less than a hundred paces beyond the gate, too close to bear thinking about. Meryamon was your friend, easy to lure to the shrine of the hearing ear, easier to sneak up behind and slit his throat.”
“You don’t understand!” Nehi cried. “Meryamon’s death planted a fear in my heart greater than any I’ve ever before felt. I knew then that I was doomed as surely as he had been.”
Bak glanced at Karoya, who nodded, indicating that he, too, shared Bak’s conviction that Nehi was telling the truth, or close to the truth. The redhead-and probably Meryamon as well-was as much a victim of his own greed as he was a criminal. Which made Zuwapi a liar, a man wishing to cast suspicion away from himself. Yet how could a foreigner like
Zuwapi, a seaman like Antef, plan so successful a scheme within the sacred precinct? The more questions he asked, the more convinced Bak became that someone else altogether had led this gang of thieves. “Who planned the robberies,
Nehi?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not Meryamon?”
“No,” Nehi whimpered.
Bak feigned impatience. “Do you actually know Zuwapi, or did you merely deliver the items to his storehouse?”
“He met me there each time. He had to break the seal and unlatch the door. And only he could reseal the door after we placed the objects inside.”
“What of Captain Antef?”
“I learned of him by chance.” Nehi swallowed a sob. “I saw Zuwapi’s trade goods being loaded onto a ship. A blind man would’ve guessed its captain was a party to the thefts.”
“Did you ever approach him?”
“I dared not,” Nehi said with a shudder. “Zuwapi would’ve been furious. As would Meryamon.”
“If you didn’t slay Maruwa or Woserhet or Meryamon…”
“I’ve slain no one! I swear to the lord Amon!”
“If you didn’t take those three men’s lives, who did?”
“Zuwapi. He’d slay his own mother to gain advantage.”
“We need more wood, sir.” Kasaya, kneeling before the furnace, was attempting to stir the fire into life. The best he could do was create a few fiery sparks that died the instant they flared.
“We could tear down the lean-to,” Sergeant Mose said. He was shorter than Kasaya, but equally broad. His nose had been flattened by a blow sometime in the past, making him appear hard and cruel.
Karoya scowled his disapproval. “These buildings are the property of the royal house, Sergeant. We’re accountable for their well-being.”
“We can always use the cudgel, sir, or a stout stick.”
Bak’s eyes darted around the compound, searching for an other way to intimidate the prisoners, and came to rest on the pit, a rough circle dug knee-deep into the ground, and the dried black clay at the bottom. A quick glance at the sun told him they had sufficient time. “Bring some men to break up that clay, and pour water into the pit to soften it. The threat of burning primed them to talk; with luck and the help of the gods, a fear of being smothered by mud will further their in clination to speak freely.”
“More questions?” Antef glowered at Bak and Karoya.
“I’ve already told you all I can. I hauled Zuwapi’s trade goods, yes, and during the last few months I’ve wondered if they might be stolen, but I had absolutely no involvement in his foul scheme.”
Bak’s laugh was short, sharp. “You may not have been in volved up to your neck, but you were certainly immersed to your knees.”
The captain raised his chin high and stood as tall and straight as he could. He spoke in a haughty manner. “I must return to my ship, Lieutenant, and my crew must accompany me. I’ve valuable cargo on board and I fear for its safety.”
Choosing not to remind him that Karoya’s men had been guarding the cargo for a week, Bak asked, “Do you see that pit, Captain?”
One of Bak’s Medjays knelt at the rim, pouring water over what had been rock-hard dirt, broken into clods that had been pounded to dust. A harbor patrolman waded around in mud well above his ankles, mixing in the water.
Two men knelt at the edge, offering unwanted advice. A dozen or so others stood around, joking, teasing their less fortunate companion.
Antef stared, puzzled.
“We’ve run out of fuel for the kiln,” Bak explained, “but we thought you might like a mud bath-beginning with your head.”
The captain sucked in his breath and took a quick step back. “You can’t do that to me. I’m a respectable man. I’ll complain to the harbormaster.”
“I suggest you answer our questions, sir,” Karoya said. As before, his demeanor was far kinder than Bak’s. “Each hour that passes makes you look more guilty in our eyes, and so the harbormaster will believe.”
Bak motioned Mose to usher Antef to the pit. The sergeant was not as tall as Kasaya, but his uncompromising demeanor was more intimidating. The captain struggled to break free, but Mose’s strength prevailed. The men around the pit moved out of their way, and soon they stood at the edge. Antef looked downward, his expression one of distaste and dread.
“What do you know of the other men involved in the thefts?” Bak asked.
“I did business with Zuwapi, no one else.”
“You didn’t know the priest Meryamon or his friend
Nehi?”
“As far as I know, I never met either man.”
Karoya queried Bak with a glance. The more senior of the two nodded, and the younger officer hurried across the yard to disappear around the corner of the house, behind which lay the servants’ quarters.
At a command from Mose, the man in the pit scrambled out.
“Do you know the man who planned the thefts?” Bak asked. “The one who pulled the strings that made the other men dance?”
“Zuwapi did.”
Bak raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words, no. He was a prosperous mer chant, well placed in Hattusa, so I just assumed…” The words tailed off, doubt crept into Antef’s voice. “He did at times take a day or two to answer my questions. Too long, I thought, but…” He gave Bak a sharp look. “He was no more than a tool, as I was?”
“I don’t know,” Bak admitted, but deep down inside the suspicion hardened that someone other than the men he had snared had planned the robberies and issued the orders.
Karoya, holding Nehi by the arm, came around the corner of the dwelling. Bak watched Antef closely. The captain looked toward the redhead but gave no sign of recognition.
A patrolman appeared and took the prisoner back around the house. As Karoya approached across the yard, he shook his head, verifying Bak’s impression that Nehi had failed to rec ognize the seaman.
“Let’s speak again of Maruwa,” Bak said to the captain.
“How many times must I tell you? I know nothing of his death!”
“How certain are you that he didn’t notice the stolen ob jects mixed in with the rest of Zuwapi’s cargo?”
Antef spoke as if Bak were trying his patience. “He was as transparent as rainwater, Lieutenant, and as trusting. If he’d grown suspicious, the first thing he’d have done is come to me and tell me.”
“He wouldn’t have thought you guilty?”
“Why would he? The goods belonged to Zuwapi, not me.”
“If he’s telling the truth-and I believe he is,” Bak said,
“he’d have had no reason to slay Maruwa.”
Karoya, seated on the lower, furnace portion of a dormant kiln, looked ruefully toward the stable, where Antef had been taken. “I hate to think him innocent of all but smuggling.”
Bak took a careful drink from his beer jar, trying not to stir up the sediment. “Zuwapi also claims Maruwa noticed nothing.”
“If the man was as blind to the smuggling as they say, why was he slain?”
“I’ve slain no one!” Zuwapi stood in the pit, his feet and ankles buried in mud. Mose’s big hand gripped his neck, ready to shove him onto his knees.
Bak was not sure how seriously the Hittite took the threat, but he was fully prepared to prove to him how frightening immersion would be. “One of your partners in crime says you did.”
“Who? Antef?” The Hittite spat on the ground to show his contempt, whether for Bak or the captain was unclear. “He’s a liar. A liar and a sneak.” His expression grew sly. “I say you look at him. I’d not be surprised if he took their lives.”
“He’s told us he dealt solely with you, Zuwapi, and he had no knowledge of the men who stole the objects.”
“He wasn’t supposed to know them,” Zuwapi admitted,
“but he may’ve followed me, thinking to cut me out, to elim inate me as the man between.”
“You said before that you thought Nehi slew those men,”
Karoya reminded him.
“Did I?” Zuwapi lifted a foot, making a sucking sound in the mud. It was too runny to form into pots, but thick enough for Bak’s purpose. “He could have. He gives an impression of being weak, but he’d not be the first nor will he be the last to avoid a fight or suitable punishment by denying an accu sation-or pointing a finger at someone else.”
The Hittite would blame Maatkare Hatshepsut herself,
Bak thought, if he believed he could make himself appear innocent. “Why would you wish Maruwa dead, Zuwapi?”
“You tell me.”
Bak nodded to Mose, who struck the Hittite in the stom ach, forcing a whoosh of air from his mouth, and shoved his head toward the mud.
“No!” Zuwapi struggled like a snared snake. “You’ll smother me!”
“Answer my question,” Bak said.
“How can I? I didn’t slay him!” Mose eased the pressure slightly, allowing the Hittite to stand half bent over. “Antef swore he was too interested in the horses to pay attention to the rest of the cargo, and I believed him. If he’d thought oth erwise, I’d have spotted the lie.”
“If the three deaths weren’t so much alike, I’d have looked to Meryamon as Woserhet’s slayer. But since he was among the slain…” Bak let the words tail off as if he had been thinking aloud. “Who do you believe took Meryamon’s life?”
“Nehi.”
“Not another man? One stronger than any of you-and smarter? One who planned the robberies?”
Zuwapi stared at his interrogator, thinking hard, and a slow understanding crept onto his face. He muttered an oath in his own tongue. “One who’s cut himself off from us, you mean. Severing all ties, thinking we’ll take the blame while he…”
“Reaps the profits?” Bak laughed, as if he enjoyed the irony. “Who is he, Zuwapi?”
“I wish I knew,” the Hittite growled through gritted teeth.
“Are you going to allow him to walk away free and clear, leaving you and the others as sacrificial goats?”
“Believe me, if I knew his name, I’d tell you.”
“Oh, yes, I believe him.” Bak accepted a beer jar from
Psuro and broke out the plug. “He was too angry to lie, and can you blame him? While he and the others are put to death or suffer the hardships of a desert mine, a man no one seems to know will gain great wealth.”
“I fear we’ve reached a dead end, sir.” Karoya, looking glum, sat down on a low stool beneath the lean-to, took an open jar from Mose, and sipped from it. “If none of them knows who their leader was after three or more years, how can we hope to lay hands on him?”
“You told us Meryamon stayed away from Zuwapi’s storehouse,” Bak said. “Why was that?”
Nehi stood a couple of paces from the pit with Mose. The threat was obviously unnecessary. From the way his shoul ders slumped, the distraught look on his face, anyone could see that he had no will to resist. “He wanted never to be seen with the trader.”
“In other words, you served as the intermediary between
Meryamon and Zuwapi. You knew of Antef, though you weren’t supposed to.”
Nehi hung his head, nodded.
“Zuwapi, in turn, served as the intermediary between you and Antef.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see,” Bak said, and indeed he did. The gang had been set up as a chain, with Meryamon dealing solely with Nehi who dealt with Zuwapi, who in turn dealt with Antef. “I thought at first that Zuwapi was the key man in this little group of robbers and smugglers. Instead…”
Nehi, staring at the ground beneath his feet, shook his head. “As far as I know, he served no purpose other than to take the objects I gave him and trade them to men far to the north.”
Bak caught the young man’s chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who planned the robberies,
Nehi? You? Have you led us to believe you’re a simple thief when in fact you’re the head of the gang?” The charge was ridiculous, but he had somehow to get Nehi to verify his suspicions.
“Me?” Nehi looked startled. “I’ve stolen objects from the lord Amon, I freely admit, but it wasn’t my idea.”
“Whose was it?”
“Meryamon’s,” he whispered.
Bak shoved the young man’s head higher, forcing him to stand on his toes. “It’s easy to blame a dead man.”
“I swear by all the gods! He told me what they planned to do and suggested I help. He spoke of immense wealth and a life of luxury in Ugarit or some other distant land.” Nehi be gan to sob. “Now look what I have. A promise of death for stealing from the god.”
“Zuwapi said the order to slay me came from you.”
Nehi gaped, stuttered, “I didn’t…” A sudden thought struck; shock registered on his face. “Oh, no!”
“What?” Bak demanded.
“I sometimes passed messages to him, sealed scrolls
Meryamon gave me.”
“Earlier you used the word ‘they.’ Did Meryamon plan the robberies and smuggling, or did someone else lead the gang from afar?”
“Meryamon was a priest, nothing more. What would he know of transporting items of value out of the land of Kemet, of trading such fine objects to men in faraway lands, men willing to pay dearly for them?”
Exchanging a satisfied glance with Karoya, Bak released
Nehi’s chin. “The one who planned the thefts, then, was an other man. He was your leader, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.” Nehi spoke so softly Bak could barely hear.
“Who is he?”
Nehi stared at the ground, mumbled, “Only Meryamon knew his name.”
“And now your friend is dead.”
Tears spilled from Nehi’s eyes, he nodded.
“If you don’t know who this leader of yours was, and
Zuwapi and Antef don’t either, how will you contact him?”
Nehi tried to meet Bak’s eyes but failed. “I guess he’ll contact us.”
His lack of conviction made a lie of the words. He knew as well as Bak that the man had no intention of making him self known. He had slain Meryamon to break the chain, thereby assuring his safety forevermore.
Bak and Psuro walked through the gathering darkness along lanes crowded with men, women, and children, all making merry on this final night of the festival. Their Med jays had gone off with Karoya and the harbor patrolmen to escort the prisoners to the Great Prison of Waset, where they would be held until they stood before the vizier. After judg ment they would return to the prison to await punishment.
“Where are you to meet our men, Psuro?” Bak asked.
“In front of Ipet-resyt. They won’t be long, I’m certain.”
The sergeant stopped in the intersection where they must part company. A soldier stood there, holding high a flaming torch, keeping a wary eye on the people passing by, all talk ing and laughing, happy and excited. “Are you sure you can’t come with me, sir? You’ve earned a night of revelry.”
“I must report to Amonked, tell him of today’s events.”
Bak nudged Psuro, and they stepped out of the way of a half dozen sailors, sauntering arm in arm with no regard for any one in their path. “Early tomorrow, before the festivities be gin in earnest, I must go to Pentu’s dwelling and point a finger at the one who became involved in the politics of
Hatti. Amonked must be told what I mean to say.”
“Will you not join us after you leave him, sir?”
“I’d like to, but no.” Bak laid a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “I must go somewhere to be alone and think.
Something nags at me. Bits of information, statements made that slip away each time I feel them close.”