“Hapuseneb has been told of Woserhet’s death.” Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, a young man as free of hair as a melon, wore across his chest the sash of a lector priest.
“He’s very upset, Lieutenant. I can’t tell you how strongly he feels that the man who slew him must be snared and pun ished as quickly as possible.”
The priest, with Bak at his side, walked slowly down the narrow lane toward the multitude of buildings that formed the house of life, the primary center of priestly learning in the land of Kemet. The lord Khepre reached into the lane, turning the plastered walls a blinding white and heating the earth upon which they trod. The second day of the festival promised to be as hot as the first. Soft voices could some times be heard beyond the doorways to either side, but in general, silence and peace reigned.
Bak tried not to show his annoyance. The last thing he needed was the chief priest adding to the burden Amonked had already placed on his shoulders. “To do so, I need to know more of his activities.”
“Ask what you will.” The young priest stepped over a yel low dog sunning itself in front of a door. “I can’t promise to give you the answers you need, for I’ve been told close to nothing. I’ll do the best I can.”
“Mistress Ashayet, Woserhet’s wife, had no idea what he’s been doing-evidently he seldom spoke of his task but she said he’d been troubled for several days. Can you tell me why?”
“All I know is what he told Hapuseneb: he’d found some discrepancies in the records of the storehouses of the lord
Amon. What they were, he didn’t say, evidently wishing to be more certain before he pointed a finger.”
Bak grimaced. He had hoped for more. “Were the store houses here in Waset or in some other city?”
“Here, I believe, but of that I’m not certain. You must speak to his scribe, a man named Tati.”
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
Bak made his slow way down the narrow, meandering lane, counting the open doorways as he stepped over a cry ing baby, sidled around donkeys and several women barring the path while they argued, and stopped to allow a pack of snarling dogs to race around him. Crowding in to either side were the walls of small, single-story interconnected houses from which grimy white plaster flaked. The lane, untouched by the early morning sun, smelled of manure, rancid oil, un washed humanity, and, strangely enough, of flowers. The poor of the city loved the delicate beauty of the blooming plants they had neither the space nor the leisure to grow and, during the reversion of offerings, would ofttimes choose blossoms over food.
This and several neighboring building blocks, though less than two hundred paces from the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, seemed a world away. According to the chief priest’s aide,
Woserhet and his scribe and workmen had been given a house here for that very reason. In this private place, with no one the wiser, the lord Amon’s servants could dwell on the premises, the auditor could study untroubled the documents they had taken from the storehouses, and they could keep their records.
Bak reached the twelfth doorway on his right and walked inside. The main room was fairly large, an irregular rectan 70
Lauren Haney gle with the wall to the right longer than the opposing wall.
Two rooms opened off to the left. Light and fresh air entered through high windows at the back. A quick glance told him this was the dwelling he sought. Rather than a loom or signs of other household industry, he saw sleeping pallets rolled up along one wall and several small woven reed chests and baskets containing personal belongings.
Footsteps sounded, drawing his eyes to a short, squat, and muscular man descending the mudbrick stairway built against the rear wall. “Who are you?” the man demanded.
Bak gave his name and title, saying he represented
Amonked. “And you are…?”
“You’ll be looking for Tati.” The man dropped off the bot tom step and pointed upward. “He’s on the roof, sir. He’s ex pecting you. Or someone like you.”
He looked no different from any other workman in the land of Kemet and wore the same skimpy kilt, but he spoke with the accent of the people of the western desert and car ried the brand of a prisoner on his right shoulder. Bak guessed he had been taken in a border skirmish and offered by Maatkare Hatshepsut to the lord Amon in gratitude for the victory. “You’ve been told of Woserhet’s death?”
“We have,” the workman nodded. “May the gods take him unto themselves and may the one who slew him burn through eternity.”
Bak was not quite sure what family of gods had given birth to the words, but he could see the sentiment was heart felt. “You liked him, I see.” He smiled, hoping to draw the man out.
“He could be as sour as an unripe persimmon, but he was always fair and made no unreasonable demands.” The work man hesitated, then blurted, “What’ll happen to us now, sir?
Has anyone said?”
“With so many men in authority participating in the Beau tiful Feast of Opet, I doubt if a decision has been made.”
The workman nodded in mute and unhappy understand ing.
Bak headed up the stairs. He sympathized with this man and the others. As servants of the lord Amon, their fate rested in other men’s hands. The scribe would probably be kept at
Ipet-isut or be sent to another god’s mansion, but the odds were weighted heavily that the four workmen would be taken to one of the lord Amon’s many estates to toil in the fields.
At the top of the stairs, a long expanse of white rooftop baked in the morning sun, with no line marking where one dwelling ended and another began. A half-dozen spindly pavilions had been erected to expand the living and work space of the houses below. North-facing airshafts projected here and there, and stairways led downward to each home.
Lines had been strung from which dangled strips of drying meat or newly dyed thread or yarn. Fish lay spread out to dry. Sun-baked dung had been piled in neat mounds for use as fuel; hay was spread in loose piles; baskets, tools, and pottery lay where they had been dropped.
Beneath a rough pavilion roofed with palm fronds, he found a small, elderly man seated cross-legged on the rooftop. His upper back was so stooped his head projected from between his shoulders like a turtle peering out from its shell. His brand, different from that of the workman, had faded, speaking of many long years as a servant.
“You must be Tati,” Bak said.
“Yes, sir.”
The scribe motioned him to sit in the shade. While Bak explained who he was and why he had come, Tati made a tiny mark on the scroll spread across his lap and another on the limestone flake on the roof beside him. Noting the cu riosity on Bak’s face, he explained, “The scroll contains the official list of all the faience statuettes and dishes thought to be in a storage magazine we inspected last week. The shard shows all we found.”
“Do the two match?” Bak had expected an accent, but could detect none.
“Well enough.” Tati sat up as straight as he could and for an instant a cloud of pain passed over his face. “We rarely find a perfect match when the items are small. Woserhet never failed to insist that we count each and every one, while the men who originally store them are always far too impa tient to take care.”
Bak shifted forward and brushed away a small stone dig ging into his backside. “The workman in the dwelling below said you were expecting me.”
“Our task was one of great import, given to us by the chief priest, Hapuseneb himself. We doubted Woserhet’s death would be allowed to go unnoticed. Or unpunished.”
Again Bak noted the lack of an accent. “You’re a man of
Kemet, an educated man, and yet you carry a brand?”
“I was born far to the north in the land of Hatti.” The scribe smiled at Bak’s surprise. “I left as a callow youth, ap prenticed to my uncle to become a trader. While traveling through Amurru, Maatkare Hatshepsut’s father Akheperkare
Thutmose marched through the land with his army. I was taken prisoner and brought here.”
“You speak our tongue very well.”
“I learn with ease the words of other lands. For many years I served as a translator, journeying with our sover eign’s envoys to distant cities. A most satisfying and happy time that was.” His smile was sad, regretful. “But alas. The years have caught up with me. With this deformity…” He touched his shoulder. “… and the pain that sometimes be sets me, I can no longer travel. So our sovereign gave me as an offering to the lord Amon.”
“And you were loaned to Woserhet.”
“A good man. I shall miss him.”
“We all will.” The workman who had greeted Bak had come up the stairway unheard. He brought several jars of beer, two of which he handed to Bak and Tati. The rest he placed in a basket before going back downstairs.
Bak broke the dried mud plug out of his jar. “Evidently he told Hapuseneb he’d found some discrepancies in the rec ords of the storehouses of the lord Amon. Other than that vague statement, no one seems to know what he was doing.”
“That was our task, sir. To search out discrepancies. Not the small ones like those I’ve found here…” Tati tapped the document on his lap. “… but significant differences.”
“Woserhet surely wouldn’t have troubled the chief priest with talk of something insignificant.”
“No, he was not a man to worry others needlessly.” Tati let the scroll curl up and set it on the rooftop beside the shard. “He seemed to think he’d found some irregularities, but he wouldn’t tell me what or where they were.” He sipped from his beer jar, frowned. “He often left me puzzled like that, saying if I couldn’t find anything wrong, he might well be mistaken. I appreciated his reasoning, but found the prac tice most annoying.”
“As would I.” Bak glanced at a woman who had come onto the roof at the far end of the block. She got down on her knees and began to turn over the fish drying in the sun.
“You’ve found nothing thus far?”
“No, sir.” Tati smiled ruefully. “I’ll continue to search un til the chief priest or one of his aides remembers us. After that… Well, who knows what the lord Amon has planned for us?”
Bak had no way of setting the scribe’s anxiety to rest, so he made no comment. “Woserhet’s wife, mistress Ashayet, said he’d been troubled for the past few days.”
“Yes, sir.” Tati looked thoughtfully across the cluttered rooftop. “Something bothered him, but what it was I’ve no idea.”
“The irregularities he’d mentioned?”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so.” Seeing the puzzlement on Bak’s face, the scribe hastened to explain. “When he ini tially suggested I look for discrepancies, he didn’t seem un duly disturbed, so why would he become upset later? Also, why would he not mention the irregularities we’d previously discussed?”
Good questions, both. “Didn’t you ask what the trouble was?”
Sadness clouded Tati’s expression. “Normally, he ex plained what he was thinking, but this time… Well, as he offered no explanation, I assumed the matter personal and let it drop.”
Bak sipped his beer, thinking over what he had learned.
Practically nothing. Many men confided in their servants, but Woserhet had been a man of limited means, one unac customed to retainers and no doubt unwilling to share his thoughts with them. “You must let me know if you find any discrepancy of significance, or anything else unusual. One of your workmen can deliver the message to my Medjays’ quarters.”
While the scribe wrote the location on a shard, Bak said,
“The workman who brought this beer obviously liked
Woserhet, but indicated he could be sour at times. So much so that he made enemies?”
“Sour. Not a word I’d use.” Tati set the shard aside and laid down his pen. “He was honest to a fault, sir, and blunt in all he said. He angered many people, especially the various storehouse overseers when he pointed out problems that, with proper supervision, could’ve been avoided. But I can’t honestly see a man slaying him, offending the lady Maat in the most dire manner possible, for so small a thing.”
Bak had known men to slay for less, but usually in the heat of anger and after too much beer. He doubted such had been the case with Woserhet’s death.
“Many of the scrolls are like this one, sir.”
Hori, seated in the lane outside the small room in which Woserhet had died, carefully unrolled the partially burned document. In spite of the care he took, the charred outer end flaked off onto his lap. Deeper inside the roll, only the lower and upper edges had burned and were dropping away. Most of the words and numbers remained, but the more exposed surfaces were difficult to decipher because of soot and water stains. Farther in, the stains were fewer, the document easier to read.
Bak, kneeling beside the youth, eyed the three piles of scrolls. The largest by far was the one from which Hori had plucked the open document. Another was made up of scrolls slightly damaged or not burned at all. The third was a mass of badly burned documents that looked impossible to salvage.
“Can we take these to our quarters, sir?” Kasaya asked.
“We’d be a lot more comfortable on the roof, have more room to spread out, and nobody would bother us.”
Bak looked into the fire-damaged room. Most of the bro ken pottery had been shoved off to the side, out of the way.
A black splotch on the now-dry floor identified the spot where the oil had burned, and a larger brownish patch had to be dried blood. The smell of burning remained, but not as strong as before.
“All right, but you must reseal this room before you go, and warn the guards to let no one inside. You may need to look at other records, and we don’t want them to walk away while your back is turned.”
“If Woserhet was fretful, I have no idea why.” User, the
Overseer of Overseers of the storehouses of Amon, gave
Bak an irritated look. “All I know is that Hapuseneb sum moned me one day and told me to expect him and those ser vants of his. He said I was to cooperate with them in every way and give them free access to all the storehouses. I re peated his instructions to the men who report to me, and that was that.”
Bak stepped into the shade cast by the long portico in front of the squarish treasury building. User was seated on a low chair about ten paces from the gaping doorway. His writing implements lay on a small, square table beside him.
He looked the perfect example of the successful bureaucrat: his spine was stiff, his demeanor august, with an expansive stomach that brought the waistband of his long kilt almost up to his plump breasts.
“You were never curious about what he was doing?”
“I knew what he was doing.” User sniffed disdainfully.
“He was an auditor, wasn’t he?”
Bak smothered a smile. He had asked for that. “How close was he to the end of his task?”
“As far as I know, he’d almost finished.” User looked out into the courtyard, where four royal guards idled in the shade of a sycamore tree. Their officer had gone inside the building with two treasury guards and a priest. “Most of the overseers had come to whisper in my ear, ofttimes to complain that he exceeded his authority. I quickly set them straight, repeating
Hapuseneb’s order that we give him every assistance.”
“You never looked into what he was doing?”
“Why should I? He had his task and I have mine.”
“Were you not worried that he might find irregularities in the records?”
“Irregularities, Lieutenant? Someone counted wrong or transposed a number? Someone omitted a line when trans ferring amounts from a shard to the final scroll?” User snorted. “Everyone makes a mistake at one time or another.”
The Overseer of Overseers, equal in rank to Amonked but with not a shred of the common sense, was too self-satisfied for his own good. Bak was beginning to understand why
Amonked took such a strong interest in the large warehouses of the lord Amon outside the walls of the sacred precinct, those that housed the real wealth of the god: grain, hides, copper ingots. His title of Storekeeper of Amon had un doubtedly been intended as a sinecure, yet he toiled daily at the task, as would any conscientious man. If he, like User, had been responsible for the day-to-day operations of the storehouses, Bak had no doubt he would have known ex actly what the auditor did.
“Could Woserhet have uncovered a theft?”
“Who would steal from the greatest of the gods?” User scoffed. “Such an offense is unthinkable. No man would be so bold.”
“Given sufficient temptation…”
“Yes, yes, I know.” User waved off Bak’s objection. “But not here. Not in the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut.”
The man was insufferable. Offering a silent prayer to the lord Amon to give him patience, Bak glanced at the royal guards, who had begun to play with three fuzzy kittens whose mother watched from a safe distance. “Did Woserhet audit the treasury?”
“He began here. I assured him that I take personal respon sibility for the god’s most valuable possessions and can list from memory all the items stored here.” User scowled.
“Nonetheless, he insisted.”
Bak had never been inside this particular treasury, but its size alone told him no man could remember each and every object it contained. “How long ago was that?”
“A month, no more. The very day Hapuseneb told me to open all doors to him and his men.”
Too long ago, Bak suspected, to have anything to do with
Woserhet’s most recent worry. Unless fresh evidence had been found leading back to the treasury. “This building must contain more items of significant value than all the other storehouses added together. Would it not be logical for a thief to look here for the most worthy prize?”
“How many times must I repeat myself, Lieutenant?”
User pursed his lips in irritation. “I take considerable pride in the fact that the treasury falls within my realm of respon sibility, and I daily walk through its rooms. I frankly admit to being obsessed with beautiful objects, and where else can one find so many in so confined a location?”
“I understand the storage magazines in the block where
Woserhet died also contain objects of value.”
User laughed, disdainful. “Nothing worthy of offending the lord Amon, believe me.”
“Aromatic oils, ritual instruments made of precious met als, fine linen, and…” Bak broke off abruptly. The Over seer of Overseers was not listening.
User was staring hard at the royal guards, frowning. When he spoke, it was more to himself than to Bak. “That officer has been inside a long time.” He rose from his chair and took up his baton of office, which had been leaning against a col umn. “I must see what the matter is.”
Bak stepped in front of him, halting him. “I must ask questions within the sacred precinct, sir, and many of the men with whom I speak will be overseers of the storehouses for which you are responsible.”
“Question anyone you like. Ask what you will.” User stepped sideways and raised his baton, barring Bak from his path. “You’ll find everything in order. You’ll see.”
Bak stopped with Amonked just inside the door and stud ied the bejeweled, bewigged men and women circulating around Governor Pentu’s spacious reception hall. The odors of beer and wine, roast duck and beef, onions and herbs com peted with the aromas of sweet-smelling perfume and luxuri ous bouquets of flowers. Voices rose and fell; laughter rang out. The late afternoon breeze flowing in through high win dows failed to compete with the heat of bodies and human energy. A rivulet of sweat trickled down Bak’s breastbone, and he thanked the lord Amon that he had had the good sense to wear no wig. Amonked had groused all the way to Pentu’s dwelling about the need to wear the finery of a nobleman.
He leaned close to Bak, muttered, “We’ll stay an hour, no more.”
Bak, who saw not a single face he recognized, feared that hour might seem an eternity.
Pentu’s aide Netermose hastened to meet them. He ush ered them through the crowd to the slightly raised dais the governor shared with his spouse and Chief Treasurer Dje huty, and slipped away. Bak and Amonked bowed low to the trio, who were seated on chairs surrounded by bowls of fra grant white lilies floating on water. They murmured the cus tomary greetings and were welcomed in turn. After Pentu extended to them all the good things his household had to offer, they moved aside, allowing other newly arrived guests to take their place.
A female servant gave them stemmed bowls filled with a flower-scented, deep red wine and asked if they wished any thing else, relating a long list of food, drink, flowers, and perfumes. From what they could see on the heavily laden flat dishes carried through the hall by servants and on the low ta bles scattered along the walls, occupied mostly by women who chose to sit and gossip while they ate, her description could in no way prepare them for the sumptuous reality. Bak helped himself to the honeyed dates while Amonked sam pled a variety of spiced meats.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The priest Sitepehu bowed his head to Amonked and smiled at Bak. “Lieutenant.”
“Pentu has truly outdone himself,” Amonked said.
“We owe much of this bounty to Pahure, his steward. He traveled to Waset a few days ahead of us to prepare the dwelling for our arrival and to see that we had plentiful fresh food, drink and flowers.”
“Not an easy task at this time of year, with most of the fields flooded, the best cropland under water.”
Sitepehu chuckled. “Pahure is not a man to let a slight dif ficulty get in his way.”
“Do you not share some of the acclaim?” Amonked asked, smiling. “Did you not pray to the lord Inheret that he’d be successful?”
The chuckle turned into a wholehearted laugh, drawing the attention of the people around them. “Frankly, sir, I saw no need. If Pahure stumbles, it’ll not be over something as small as preparing for guests.” The priest glanced beyond them, smiled. “Ah, Netermose. Meret.”
The young woman welcomed the two of them to the gov ernor’s dwelling. Amonked hurried through the appropriate compliments, then immediately spotted an elderly priest he said Sitepehu should meet. He and Netermose rushed the priest off through the crowd.
Turning to Bak, flushing slightly, Meret smiled. “Your friend isn’t very subtle, is he, Lieutenant?”
He laughed. “Amonked seems to think I need a wife.”
“Do you?”
The question was so arch that for the briefest of moments he was struck dumb. “I’ve always thought myself capable of seeking out the woman with whom I wish to spend the rest of my life.”
“Seeking out? Are you trying to tell me you need no matchmaker? Or that you know of someone you plan some day to approach?”
Her thoughts were difficult to read, but he suspected the latter question was prompted by mixed emotions, a touch of concern that he might not be available mixed with relief that he might be committed.
“I found a woman I wished to wed, but I lost her.”
“To death?”
“To a lost life, yes, but not her own.”
When he failed to explain, she said, “I sorrow for you,
Lieutenant.” A woman’s laughter drew her glance to the peo ple milling around them, and she lowered her voice. “I, too, once shared my heart with another.”
He beckoned a servant, who exchanged their empty wine bowls for fresh ones. Taking her elbow, he steered her to ward one of four tall, brightly painted wooden columns sup porting the high ceiling. With the pillar at their backs and a large potted acacia to their right, they could speak with some privacy. “What tore the two of you apart?”
She stared at the noisy crowd. “He left me one day and never returned.”
Bak could guess how she must feel. He had heard nothing of his lost love since she had left Buhen. Like him, he as sumed, Meret had no idea whether her beloved lived or died, whether he had wed another or remained alone. “I assume
Pentu shared with Amonked the wish that you and I become friends. More than friends. Does he know of your loss?”
“My sister told him. Together they decided I must forget.
I must find someone new and wed. When Amonked sug gested to Djehuty that you needed a wife, the four of them thought to bring us together.” She looked up at Bak, a sud den smile playing across her face. “Now here we are…”
He eyed her over the rim of his drinking bowl and grinned. “Thrown at each other like a boy and girl of twelve or thirteen years.”
They laughed together.
“Mistress Meret.” Pahure stood beside the potted tree, looking annoyed. “A servant tripped while carrying a large storage jar filled with wine. When it broke, it splashed most of the other servants. The few whose clothing remains un stained can’t possibly serve so many guests. You must come with me and see that those with soiled clothing change as quickly as possible.”
“Tripped!” Meret looked dismayed. “The floor in the ser vants’ quarters is perfectly smooth, and all obstacles were placed against the walls. What could he have stumbled over?”
“His feet, I suspect.”
She shot an apologetic glance at Bak. “I fear I must leave you, Lieutenant. I may not return before you go, but do come again. We have more to talk about than I ever thought possible.”
He gave her his most charming smile. “I’ll see you an other time, that I vow.”
“You like her, I see.” Bak’s father, the physician Ptah hotep, leaned against the mudbrick wall of the paddock and looked with interest upon his son.
Bak poured two heavy jars of water into the trough and stepped back. Victory and Defender, the fine black chariot horses he had been unwilling to part with when he had been exiled to the southern frontier, paid no heed. They had drunk their fill from the first jarful he had carried from the over flowing irrigation channel outside the paddock.
“She seems not at all like her sister. I thank the lord
Amon. If I’d found her to be manipulative, I’d have greeted her and no more.”
“Amonked wouldn’t do that to you.” Ptahhotep’s features were much like those of his son and he was of a similar height and breadth. The years had softened his muscles and turned the brown of his eyes to a deep gold, but no one could have thought him other than the younger man’s sire. “Would you make a match with her?”
Bak knew Ptahhotep hoped to see him settle down with wife and family. “How can I say? I must spend more time with her, get to know her. But first, I must lay hands on the man who slew Woserhet.”