“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?” Pentu, seated in his armchair on the dais in his spacious audience hall, tried very hard to form a welcoming smile. “Especially at so early an hour.”
Amonked did not return the smile. “We wished to speak with you, you and the members of your household. We knew if we came later, we’d not find you home.”
From Pentu’s appearance, they had caught him dressing in his festival best. He wore a calf-length kilt of fine linen and his eyes were painted, but he had not yet adorned him self with jewelry and wig. Like innumerable other people in
Waset, he and his retinue were readying themselves for the short walk to Ipet-resyt. There they would watch the lord
Amon leave his southern mansion and make his way to the waterfront, where he would board the sacred barge and sail north to Ipet-isut, thereby culminating the Beautiful Feast of
Opet.
“Your presence is always a pleasure,” Pentu said, “but we’ll be far better prepared to receive you later, after the day’s festivities end.”
“Frankly, Pentu, the word ‘pleasure’ does not apply.”
Amonked glanced at Bak. “My young friend can explain.”
A female servant, arranging flowers in a large bowl on the dais, noted his peremptory tone and glanced up at her mas ter. Pentu’s expression was stormy, his body as tense as a
tautly pulled bowstring. Sensing an impending crisis, she rose quickly to her feet. She dropped a blossom, stepped on it in her haste to leave, and departed. The sweet scent of the crushed flower filled the air.
The governor scowled at Bak. “I can’t imagine why you’ve come again, Lieutenant. I thought we were rid of you.”
“I told Bak he wouldn’t need my authority. I believed you to be a fair and courteous man.” Amonked’s voice sharp ened. “It seems I erred.”
Pentu flushed at the rebuke.
“We’ve come to reveal the name of the one who brought about your recall from Hattusa,” Bak said.
“Now look here, young man…”
Amonked raised a hand, silencing him. “I’ve taken the liberty of summoning the members of your household. As soon as they arrive, we’ll begin.”
In less serious circumstances, Bak might have smiled.
Normally unassuming in appearance and behavior,
Amonked could don a cloak of power as easily as his cousin,
Maatkare Hatshepsut, should the need arise. “We’ll not keep you long, sir. What I have to reveal is easily explained.”
“Governor Pentu has all along denied that any member of this household would foment trouble in the land of Hatti.”
Bak, standing with Amonked beside the dais, glanced at
Pentu, who occupied the sole chair on the raised platform.
The governor stared straight forward in stony silence, one hand clutching his long staff of office, the other the arm of his chair. “His refusal to believe in spite of the fact that our pres ent envoy to Hattusa verified the accusation was one of sev eral factors I considered when thinking over the problem.”
Bak eyed the three men-Sitepehu, Netermose, and
Pahure-standing before the dais, and Taharet and Meret, seated side by side on low stools. All but the priest had been interrupted in various stages of adorning themselves for the
festival. Sitepehu, who had to rise early to make the morning offerings to the lord Inheret, wore the full-length kilt, jew elry, and robe of his priesthood; his shaven head gleamed in the light streaming down from a high window. Netermose, who had barely begun to dress, wore nothing but a knee length kilt and broad multicolored collar. Pahure wore a long kilt, broad collar, and bracelets, but had not applied eye paint or donned a wig.
Both women wore lovely white sheaths of the finest linen, but there the resemblance ended. Meret was fully groomed, bewigged, and bejeweled, ready to leave the house. Taharet was partially made up and her hair hastily combed. She wore no jewelry. She had obviously been caught unprepared for guests-or for the necessary accusa tions. Her discomfort at having to show herself when not looking her best was apparent, a gift from the gods Bak had not expected.
“Of more significance,” he went on, “was mistress
Taharet’s sudden disapproval of me and her refusal to allow me to speak with mistress Meret.”
“You’re a common soldier,” Taharet said, her nose high in the air. “Unworthy of my sister.” She was clearly annoyed at not being provided with a chair beside her husband, a po sition of honor due to the mistress of the house. A momen tary oversight on Pentu’s part that Bak and Amonked had reinforced by suggesting stools for the women.
“So you would have me believe,” Bak said, bowing his head in mock deference.
She opened her mouth as if to reply, but Meret took her hand and squeezed it, cutting off whatever she meant to say.
“The men of the household all expressed a healthy respect for the violence and cruelty of Hittite vengeance. Taharet and Meret, on the other hand, offered no comments about the Hittites’ brutality even though they spoke the tongue of
Hatti, associated with the people of that wretched land, and had to have had a knowledge of its ways.”
Pentu’s mouth tightened. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Lieutenant.” He did not raise his voice, but none who heard him could miss the ominous tone.
“Am I?” Bak asked, directing the question at the two women.
“My wife is a fine woman, above reproach, and so is her sister. To accuse either of them of wrongdoing is an affront
I’ll not tolerate.”
That Pentu feared his wife was the guilty party, Bak had no doubt. “I accuse one of becoming involved in the politics of the land of Hatti. How deeply embroiled the other was, I hope to discover. At the very least, she maintained a silence that brought about your recall from Hattusa.”
Sitepehu sucked in his breath. Pahure muttered a curse.
Netermose took a quick step forward as if to come to some one’s aid. Who he should help he seemed not to know, for he looked uncertainly from Pentu to the women and back again.
The governor slammed a fist on the arm of his chair, star tling everyone. “The charge is false!”
Bak studied the women, Taharet staring back defiantly,
Meret sitting demurely, one hand in her lap, the other hold ing her sister’s hand, despair clouding her face. His heart ached for her, but he could do nothing to ease her anguish.
What had been done in Hattusa was too serious, threatening the throne of a king friendly to Maatkare Hatshepsut and the peaceful relations between the two lands. On a level more personal to every man and woman in Pentu’s household, not one of them would have returned alive to Kemet if that king had not chosen, because he also valued that friendship, to close his eyes to the vile deed.
He pointed his baton of office at Taharet. “You, mistress, have much to account for.”
“Get out!” Pentu leaped from his chair. “Get out of my house. My wife is innocent of wrongdoing, and I’ll allow no more of these… these… false charges.”
Bak whistled a signal. Psuro and four Medjays hurried through the door and across the room. “Take her away,” he said, pointing at Taharet.
Pentu’s face paled. One did not arrest an individual for treason on a whim. Especially with Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin serving as a witness. “No! It can’t be.” The worm of doubt crept into his voice, his face. “It’s untrue, I tell you.”
Taharet stared at him, shocked and dismayed by his wan ing confidence. As a Medjay reached for her, she ducked away and dropped to her knees before her husband. “I’ve done nothing wrong, my beloved. I swear I haven’t.”
He reached toward her, then slowly withdrew his hand be fore touching her hair. She moaned deep down inside.
Two Medjays caught her arms and lifted her to her feet.
She looked wild-eyed at Bak, cried out, “You can’t tear me from my home! I’m innocent, I tell you.”
Bak looked upon her with pity. He was not proud of what he had to do, but it must be done. “You lived in Sile on a ma jor trade route and learned to speak the tongues of many lands, including Hatti. Your father, a merchant, kept you and your sister by his side to serve as translators. As a result, you met all who traveled through that border city-merchants, envoys, soldiers-and you could speak to them with ease.
One of you fell in love with a man from Hatti and continued your relationship when you dwelt in Hattusa.” Much of what he said was conjecture, but he felt sure he was close to the truth.
Pentu stared at his wife, appalled. “You? You would be unfaithful to me? To a man who held you close, who raised you onto a plinth and worshipped you as a goddess?”
A harsh sob burst from Taharet’s throat. “I’ve done noth ing to be ashamed of. Nothing!”
Pentu’s expression turned severe, cool. “You’ve betrayed me, woman.”
“No,” Taharet sobbed. “I swear I haven’t.”
Bak glanced at Meret, who was staring at her sister, her face whiter than the whitest of linen. He could almost feel her pain, and remorse threatened to undermine his resolve.
“Take her,” he said to Psuro, “to the Great Prison of Waset.”
As the men pulled Taharet away from the dais, Meret sprang to her feet. “You must release her, sir. She’s done nothing worse than protect me. I’m the one who became em broiled in Hittite politics.”
“Meret!” Taharet cried. “Don’t.”
Pahure strode quickly to Meret’s side. “Be silent, mis tress. He knows not of what he speaks.”
Meret appeared not to hear either of them. “I did what I had to do, not for myself, but for a man I cared for above all others.” She looked at Bak, her distress evident. “Your as sumption was correct, Lieutenant. I fell in love with a Hit tite. A man of royal blood, who wished to unseat the king and replace him with another. I did nothing more than carry messages, but I knew their contents and sympathized.”
Bak clamped his mouth tight, forbidding himself from urging a denial. The admission had sealed her fate and she was wise enough to realize that her life was over.
The steward placed a protective arm around her. “You must not believe her, Lieutenant. She owes to her sister all she has. She’d say anything to protect her.”
Bak stood quite still, looking at the pair. He dared not look at Amonked. They had remained together long into the night, Bak explaining his conclusions and describing what he meant to do, Amonked offering suggestions and giving a final approval. Bak’s plan had borne fruit, his assumption that Meret would not allow her sister to suffer in her place had proved accurate. One motive had remained uncertain, and the steward’s action had answered it.
“Will you never leave me alone, Pahure?” Meret flung the steward a furious look and slid out from his grasp. “I’ll not allow Taharet to suffer for my transgressions.”
Pentu frowned uncertainly at the pair, whether unsure if
Meret’s admission was true or unsettled about his steward’s behavior, Bak could not tell.
“You were wed to the Hittite?” Bak asked.
She shook her head. “I met him long ago in Sile. He was aide to an envoy who came and went. When my father learned of our love, he insisted I wed another. A man of
Kemet. Later my husband died and my sister and I moved to
Waset. After she wed Pentu, she took me into her home at
Tjeny. When we went to Hattusa, I met him again and our love deepened.”
“Mistress!” Pahure took her arm, tried to turn her away from Bak. Glaring at him, she stood as rigid as a tree whose roots were planted firmly in the earth, and as immovable.
Bak, well aware of what the admission must have cost her, softened his voice. “You once told me you’d loved and lost and knew not what had happened to him. You were speaking of the Hittite?”
She bit her lip, bowed her head. “Yes.”
If her lover had been identified as a traitor and found to be disloyal to his king, Bak could well imagine his fate. Meret had apparently reached a similar conclusion.
“Why did you not leave us alone?” Taharet cried. “Why did you have to destroy our lives? We long ago returned from that wretched land of Hatti. The incident was forgot ten. Why bring it back to life?”
Bak signaled the Medjays to release her. “A man was slain so your sister’s secret would not be revealed, mistress.”
“You accused Taharet, yet you’ve known all along I was guilty?” Meret asked.
He hardened his heart to the look of betrayal on her face.
“She had too much to lose-wealth, position, security-to take such a risk. And she was far too protective of you.”
“Who died for Meret’s sake?” Taharet demanded. “The
Hittite merchant?”
“Maruwa, yes. Whether he meant to point a finger at her, we’ll never know. But someone feared he might and cut his throat to silence him.”
“Neither my sister nor I took his life.” Taharet glanced at Meret, as if suddenly afraid her sister had been driven to murder. “That I swear to the lord Amon.”
Bak glanced at Pentu, sitting in unrelenting silence on the dais, staring at his wife as he would at a stranger. “Men may have died because of your foolishness, mistress-many no doubt in Hattusa-but neither of you have slain a man with your own hands.”
Bak caught Psuro’s eye, warning him to remain alert and ready to act. “Pahure took Maruwa’s life,” he said.
Stunned disbelief, shocked murmurs, muffled oaths fol lowed in quick succession. None remained unmoved except
Amonked and the Medjays. The steward, though caught by surprise along with everyone else, managed a harsh, cynical laugh.
Pentu glowered disbelief. “Why would he, of all people, slay a stranger?”
“He wished to place mistress Meret in his debt, to win her hand in marriage. He wished to step up to a position of re spect in your household, to become a member of the family.
That he could do only through her, the sole unwed female close to you.”
Meret stared at Pahure, appalled.
The steward laughed. “Don’t listen to him, sir. He’s des perate to uphold his reputation as a man who always lays hands on his quarry. He’s found no one else to blame, so he points a finger at me.”
Pentu, looking uncertain, glanced at Amonked. He found no reassurance in the grim look he received in return.
“I’ve heard it said that once you slay a man, a second slaying comes easier, and a third.” Bak eyed the steward with contempt. “Did you find that to be true, Pahure?”
“You speak in riddles, Lieutenant.”
“I speak of the auditor Woserhet and the priest Merya mon, whose lives you also took. And you ordered Zuwapi to slay me.”
Pahure returned Bak’s scornful look. “I’ve had no deal ings with anyone in the sacred precinct for as long as I can remember. Why would I wish those two men dead? Or you, for that matter?”
“To save yourself from the charge of stealing ritual items from the lord Amon and smuggling them out of the land of
Kemet.”
Every man and woman in Pentu’s household gaped.
“You know not of what you speak,” Pahure scoffed.
“You’d be hard pressed to prove I knew one of the three.”
“You undoubtedly met Maruwa in Hattusa. You met
Woserhet when he stopped in Tjeny, but I doubt you feared him at that time. You were too far removed from the scene of your crimes. Not until he became suspicious of Meryamon did he and the priest have to die.”
“How would I come to know a priest?”
“Meryamon grew to manhood in Abedju, as did you. As did his friend Nehi. The town is not large. You had to know each other, and your sister’s presence there along with the presence of Meryamon’s parents gave you ample opportu nity to meet and plan. I sent a courier downriver last night and will know for a fact within a few days.”
Pahure plastered a smile on his face. “You can’t prove a thing.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Amonked said. “He has merely to take you before the vizier and state his case. My word will attest to the truth of the charge.”
Baffled, the governor asked, “Pahure? Slay three men?
Steal from the lord Amon? I can’t believe it of him. Not for a woman with no wealth of her own.”
“Mistress Meret was but a stepping-stone. Wed to her, he would be looked upon as a brother to the governor of Tjeny.
He could move to Waset, to this dwelling, or to another fine dwelling in Mennufer and gradually begin to use the riches he amassed from the objects stolen from the sacred precinct.
As a man of wealth and position, he could easily become acquainted with those who walk in the shadow of Maatkare
Hatshepsut, and from there he could move into a position of influence and power. Or so he believed, at any rate.”
Pentu, sitting stiff and straight in his armchair, eyed
Pahure warily. “How certain are you of this charge, Lieu tenant?”
Bak nodded to Psuro, who ordered two Medjays to close in on the steward. Whistling a signal, he summoned Hori and Kasaya from the next room.
As the pair hurried into the hall, a smiling Hori held out a long-necked red jar like those used in the land of Amurru in which Ugarit was the primary port. “We found this jar buried in the garden, sir, behind the shrine of the lord In heret. It contains scrolls describing some property held in
Ugarit and names Pahure as the owner.”
Pahure rammed an elbow into the pit of one Medjay’s stomach and struck the other high between the legs with a knee. Their spears clattered to the floor and they both bent double, clutching their injured parts. Before anyone else could think to act, he raced toward the door. Hori stepped into his path. The steward plowed into the scribe with a shoulder, knocking him against Kasaya. The jar slipped from Hori’s hands and crashed onto the floor, sending shards and scrolls in all directions. Pahure ducked around the two young men. Leaping across the threshold, he vanished from sight.
Dashing after the steward, Bak yelled at Psuro and the two unhurt Medjays to give chase. He reached the door ahead of them and spotted his quarry on the opposite side of an inner courtyard, vanishing through the portal at the top of the stairs. Though Pahure had allowed his waist to thicken as a measure of his success, he clearly had lost none of the speed and strength honed by his life as a sailor on the Great
Green Sea.
Bak dashed across the court, passing a startled servant carrying an armload of fresh, yeasty-smelling bread, and leaped through the door. As he plunged downward, he glimpsed Pahure racing ahead down the zigzagging stair way. The way was poorly lit, the landings cluttered with large, elongated water jars and less porous, rounder storage jars. Behind, he heard the rapid footsteps of Psuro and the
Medjays. He heard a thud, a curse, the sound of a rolling jar.
A triumphant shout told him one of the men had caught the container before it could tumble down the stairs.
Pahure leaped off the bottom step, shoved an elderly fe male servant out of his way, and raced through the door that opened into an anteroom. Certain he meant to leave the house, Bak put on an added burst of speed. The steward was too far ahead to catch. He banged open the front door, raced through, and leaped into the street, which teemed with men, women, and children streaming toward Ipet-resyt.
Bak reached the exit and glanced back. He saw Psuro and the Medjays racing out of the stairwell, with Sitepehu run ning after them, an unexpected sight, decked out as he was in his priestly finery. Hori followed close behind with
Netermose.
Praying Pahure would not think to grab a hostage, Bak sped after him into the street, which was filled with the deep shadows of early morning. Above the two- and three-story houses that hugged both sides, ribbons of red and yellow spread out from the lord Khepre, not long risen above the eastern horizon. The smells of fresh bread, animals and their waste, humanity, and the river hung in the warm, sticky air.
Pahure dashed west toward Ipet-resyt. He shoved aside a man carrying a small boy on his shoulders, cursed three young women walking side by side, scattering them, and shouldered an elderly couple out of his way. Bubbling voices broke off at his rude passage, children half dancing at their parents’ heels stopped to stare. An older boy peeked out of an open doorway. Grinning mischievously, he stuck out a foot, trying to trip the steward. Instead of the good-natured laugh he probably expected, he received a cuff across the side of his head that sent him reeling.
Bak did not break his stride. Hori, he felt confident, would summon help for anyone in need.
Dashing out of the street and onto the swath of trampled grass between the houses and the open court in front of Ipet resyt, Pahure slowed and glanced around as if taking mea sure of his surroundings. He veered to the right and sped toward the northern end of the wall enclosing the court. Bak raced after him into the sunlight and he, too, took note of the world around him.
Dense crowds filled the court, awaiting the greatest of the gods and his earthly daughter and son. Those who had come too late for a prime spot from which to view the procession that would, within a short time, depart from the southern mansion were milling around the booths, seeking a better vantage point. Bak could not see the processional route be yond the court to the west, but he assumed the throng was equally large all the way to the river. There another assem blage would be massed at the water’s edge, along which were moored the royal barge, the golden barge of the lord
Amon, and the boats that would tow the two vessels and carry royalty and priests downriver to Ipet-isut. A flotilla of other vessels would be marking time on the river, waiting to accompany the procession downstream.
Pahure rounded the corner of the court, with Bak about thirty paces back. Ignoring the booths that had been erected north of the court, the men and women and children who wandered around them, more intent on a good time than adoring their god and sovereigns, the two men, one after the other, pounded across the northbound processional way along which the lord Amon had been carried from Ipet-isut eleven days earlier.
Trumpets blared, announcing to the world that the pro cession was leaving Ipet-resyt. A murmur of excitement surged through the crowded court as a dozen standard 276
Lauren Haney bearers came through the pylon gateway in the massive wall in front of the god’s mansion. Bak could see nothing over the spectators’ heads except the sun-struck golden figures mounted on top of the standards, the long red pennants swaying gently atop the flagpoles clamped to the pylon, and a cloud of incense rising in front of the gate.
Pahure swung south around the corner of the court and raced toward the crowd standing along the westbound pro cessional way along which the deity would be carried to the river. Surely, Bak thought, he would not be so stupid as to run into the crowd, attracting the attention of the many sol diers lining the raised thoroughfare. No sooner had the thought come and gone than Pahure turned westward to run up a broad strip of grass between the spectators and several blocks of interconnected houses, enclosed within an unbro ken wall of white.
As Bak made the turn, he glanced back. He saw no sign of
Psuro or the Medjays or Sitepehu. They must have tried to cut through the court and had gotten caught up in the crowd.
The grass was wet, often ankle-deep in water left by the ebbing flood. The new greenery risen out of the saturated earth was thick and luxuriant, too tempting to be ignored by residents of nearby housing blocks. A dozen or so donkeys were tied to widely spaced stakes in the ground, and an old man and a dog sat beneath an acacia, watching the crowd while tending a large flock of goats and sheep brought out to graze on the lush new foliage.
Pahure pulled up his long kilt, freeing his legs for speed, and ran toward the flock, spread out across the grass. Bak raced after him. Water erupted from beneath their pounding feet, splashing their legs. The dog began to bark, exciting the animals in the flock. A few spectators turned to look, but most were so intent on the soon to approach procession that they could not be distracted. Bak heard a second blare of trumpets and the swell of voices as the people amassed in the court greeted their sovereigns, emerging from Ipet-resyt after a week of rituals celebrating their divine birth and the renewal of their spiritual power.
A splendid white ram, the wool on his belly clumped with mud, began to trot toward the river, making the clapper tied to his neck ring, enticing his flock away from what he took to be danger. The animals bunched up to follow, forc ing Pahure close to the spectators, who stood ten-deep or more all along the processional way. The dog’s barking grew more frantic and it ran out into the grass. The old man stood and, shaking a fist, began to yell. The sheep and goats at the rear of the flock broke into a faster trot, pushing the others forward. People turned to look, but another blast of trumpets drew their gaze back to the court, where the lord
Amon was leaving his southern mansion and the standard bearers had turned west to lead the procession toward the river.
Bak prayed Pahure would remain on the grass, staying well clear of the processional way, and that he would not turn back toward the temple. He did not wish to become en tangled by priests and dancers and musicians and, above all,
Maatkare Hatshepsut, Menkheperre Thutmose, and their ret inue. The very least that would happen would be the stew ard’s escape.
The dog raced toward the flock. The old man yelled more desperately, trying to call it back. Untrained, Bak guessed, and excited by the chase, it ran on, barking wildly. As it raced in among the stragglers, making them bleat in terror, the flock broke apart, with sheep and goats trotting in all di rections, several threatening to run Pahure down. Forced into the crowd, he shoved men and women out of his way, raising a chorus of angry objections. Bak, also caught up in the melee, stayed behind the spectators, ducking around one animal after another, fearful of losing sight of his quarry.
The ram turned and, head down, charged the dog. With a sharp yelp and its tail between its legs, it raced away through the flock. Frightened and confused, the sheep and goats pushed in among the spectators, bumping bare legs and stepping with sharp little hooves on sandaled feet. The people began to scatter, the approaching procession no longer able to hold their attention. Men yelled and cursed and tried to beat back the animals, while children laughed with glee, thoroughly enjoying the commotion. The soldiers along the near side of the processional way broke their line to help.
The thoroughfare, a wide expanse of sparkling white limestone chips, empty of humanity all the way to the river’s edge, was too inviting to resist. Pahure burst out from among the spectators to run west along this easier course.
Bak shouldered his way through the crowd, unwittingly opening a path for the ram. He glanced to the east, glimpsed the standard-bearers leading the procession toward him.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he set off af ter Pahure, who was dashing along the thoroughfare, kilt held well above his knees. The waterfront lay not fifty paces ahead of him.
The line of soldiers along the south side of the pro cessional way broke apart and the men ran onto the lime stone path. Bak thought at first they meant to chase Pahure, then realized half the flock had followed the ram through the crowd and the animals were spreading out across the thor oughfare in front of the approaching procession.
Openly horrified by the potential for catastrophe, the ser geant in charge yelled to his men, “Get those wretched crea tures out of here.” Practically tearing out his hair, he added,
“The ram. Somebody catch him. Lead him away. Cut his throat if you have to.”
The soldiers, many of them innocent in the ways of ani mals, tried to press them back in among the spectators; in stead, they set them to flight. The men and women lining the thoroughfare surely recognized the seriousness of the situa tion, but, following their children’s example, they began to laugh. Even Bak, racing on, had to smile, though he suspected he would be the man held to account. Especially if he didn’t lay hands on Pahure.
Forcing himself to greater effort, Bak gradually closed the distance between himself and his quarry. Ahead, the royal barge was moored against the riverbank at the end of the processional way. Behind the highly polished wooden craft and tethered to it by thick ropes, the golden barge of the lord
Amon rocked gently on the swells. In front of the royal ves sel, tied to temporary mooring posts embedded in the mud bank, were the ten boats that would tow the barges downstream, guiding them along the water’s edge to Ipet isut. Each boat, bound to the vessel behind it by a long, stout rope, had been freshly oiled and painted. Colorful pennants fluttered from masts and stays.
All along the shore against which the barges and boats were moored, spearmen held the crowd back, allowing plenty of space for the royal pair and the lord Amon, the standard-bearers, priests, and musicians to board the appro priate craft for the voyage downstream.
With the sacred barge raised high upon the floodwaters, its deck above the riverbank, the priests standing on the bow had a clear view of the processional way, of the scurrying soldiers and frightened flock. Garbed all in white and shaven bald, with two men wearing leopard skins over their shoul ders, they lined the rail, staring down the thoroughfare, ap palled by the pandemonium.
The boatmen on the royal barge had an even better view.
Rather than standing in serious expectancy while they awaited their sovereigns and their god, they were laughing heartily at the frantic gathering up of obstinate sheep and goats. The spectators waiting along the riverbank craned their necks, trying to see what was going on.
Pahure ran to the water’s edge along which the royal barge was moored. He glanced over his shoulder, saw how close Bak had come. With the path ahead barred by the ves 280
Lauren Haney sel and with any retreat cut off, he turned southward to race along the muddy shore toward the stern.
A soldier yelled, “Now look here, sir! You’re not al lowed…” He spotted Bak, blustered, “And you…”
“Police!” Bak ran into the open area along the river and raised his baton of office so all who looked could see. “That man’s a criminal. He must be stopped.”
Voices buzzed among the spectators, who pressed against the line of spearmen, eager to see. The soldiers, who might have helped Bak, given the chance, had to shove the crowd back, keeping clear the area their sovereigns and their god would, in a short time, tread.
Cursing the curiosity that so often stole away common sense, Bak ran on after Pahure. The steward, reaching the bow of the sacred barge, paused as if unsure what he should do. He glanced back at his pursuer; looked up the line of vessels tethered to the sacred craft, none of which he could hope to board and cut free; and stared out across the river at the distant shore and the flotilla of boats too far upstream to be of help. Those short moments of hesitation proved his un doing. Bak leaped at him. The steward ducked away, slipped in the mud, and half fell, half dived into the silt-laden water.
Bak, balanced precariously on the edge of the bank, came close to falling into the river with him, but scrambled back to firmer ground. Pahure surfaced just out of reach, sput tered, looked around to see where he was. The gilded bow of the barge of the lord Amon hung over him, reaching high above his head. The long, sleek prow was surmounted by a huge carved, gilded, and painted image of a ram’s head emerging from the sacred lily. The horned ram, symbol of the lord Amon, wore on its head the golden disk of the sun and over its brow a rearing cobra. A large painted and gilded wooden replica of a multicolored broad collar hung below the image.
Pahure’s expression clouded, as if for an instant he felt the wrath of the god breathing down his neck. He shook his head, visibly throwing off the feeling, and swam under the prow. A couple of paces beyond the vessel, he treaded water and again looked out across the river at the opposite shore, so far away few men would dare try to swim across and fewer would succeed. Especially not a man already tired af ter a long, hard chase. Bak, very much aware of how tired he himself was, stood poised on the riverbank, ready to swim after his quarry.
The priests on the barge, their brows furrowed by worry, peered down from the bow, looking at the man in the water and at his pursuer. Bak was as concerned as they. He could hear, over the cheering of the spectators lining the pro cessional way, the beat of drums setting the pace of the pro cession, the harsher sounds of clappers and sistra. He estimated them to be about halfway between Ipet-resyt and the river, approaching the spot where last he had seen the sheep and goats. He prayed the soldiers had removed the an imals from the processional way, prayed he could snare
Pahure before the standard-bearers and leading priests reached the waterfront and the dual sovereigns, especially
Maatkare Hatshepsut, became aware that a problem existed.
Pahure, his decision made, swam upstream, vanishing be hind the far side of the golden barge. Bak pushed his dagger firmly into its sheath so he wouldn’t lose it in the river, flung his baton of office away from the water’s edge, and dove in after him. Rounding the hull he spotted the steward swim ming south alongside the vessel at a good solid pace. The sa cred barge was not large, less than fifty paces long, and its shallow hull, gilded above the waterline, lay low in the wa ter. To a swimmer, it looked like a wall of solid gold, with scenes incised along much of its length showing Maatkare
Hatshepsut praising her heavenly father.
Bak glanced up midway along the vessel, saw rising on the deck above him the gilded dais and, beneath its roof, the open shrine in which the barque of the lord Amon would be placed for its voyage to Ipet-isut. Frantic priests hung over the railing, watching him and Pahure.
He swam on, listening to the sounds of sistra and clappers and drums echoing through the water in his ears, hearing the voices of men and women on the riverbank talking excit edly, no doubt guessing where he and Pahure had gone, what the vile criminal meant to do, where the two would reappear.
Bak could not imagine what Pahure hoped to gain. He could not swim across the river and the moment he set foot on the near shore, he would be taken. He was doomed one way or the other.
Ahead, the steward passed the twin rudders, each overlaid with a thin gold sheath incised with the sacred lily and the two eyes of the lord Horus, and swam beneath a second gilded ram’s head mounted on the narrow stern. Spotting
Bak, he dove beneath the water. Bak kicked backward to grab a rudder, fearing Pahure meant to pull him under. A half-dozen priests fluttered back and forth across the stern, peering over the sides. From their near panic, he guessed they feared he would snap off the rudder, which was much lighter and more graceful than those on working vessels.
Pahure surfaced some distance upstream and swam south ward with long, fast strokes. Ignoring muscles beginning to ache from the strain, Bak shot forward through the water.
The steward passed the densest part of the crowd gathered around the sacred barge and appeared to be heading toward an acacia hanging over the river’s edge, a tree Bak remem bered from the day he had walked along the shore with
Netermose.
Even if Pahure reached the tree and pulled himself onto the mudbank, he doubted the steward would get away. Too many people were running along the shore, keeping pace.
Still, he wanted to be the man to snare the vile criminal.
Pahure leaped upward and grabbed a limb, which bowed beneath his weight. As he began to pull himself out of the water, Bak swam to him and caught hold of his legs. The steward clung with both hands and tried to shake him off.
The limb drooped further. Bak’s hands slid down the wet legs, stopped at the ankles. He jerked as hard as he could, heard the sharp crack of breaking wood. Though not broken through, the limb bent lower, dropping Pahure into the water to his waist.
With a grim but victorious smile, Bak looked up at the man he had caught. He saw no fear on Pahure’s face, only a firm determination to fight to his last breath. Beyond the steward, he glimpsed a group of spectators running toward the tree, several armed soldiers gathering around, and four nearly naked, heavily muscled men, each carrying a good size rounded rock, identifying them as competitors in a throwing contest.
The closest soldier raised his spear and, his mouth clamped tight with determination, thrust the weapon. At the same time Bak heard a sickening thud. Pahure went limp and half slid, half fell into the water, while the spear sped harmlessly over his shoulder. As he vanished beneath the surface, Bak saw that the side of his head had been crushed.
Startled, he glanced up at the soldier, who looked equally surprised. Beyond, Bak glimpsed the rock throwers, one with a triumphant smile on his face, the others encircling him, smothering him with praise.