“I agree with Lieutenant Bak, sir.” Lieutenant Karoya stood as stiff as the long spear he held in his hand. “The priest
Meryamon was slain in exactly the same manner as the Hit tite merchant Maruwa.”
“You went to the house of death this morning?” Amonked asked.
“Late yesterday.”
A dozen or more priests hurried down the wide stone path joining the sacred precinct to the quay at the edge of the ar tificial lake that provided waterfront access to Ipet-isut.
Chattering like swallows, they walked around the raised limestone platform on which Amonked, Karoya, and Bak stood. Hastening down the shallow stairway, the priests boarded a small traveling ship that would carry them to wherever the day’s rituals required they go, probably Ipet resyt.
Amonked spoke no more until they were too far away to hear. “What of Woserhet?”
“It was difficult to tell, sir.”
“The priests who prepare the dead for eternity had already removed his internal organs and covered him with natron,”
Bak explained. “Between the fire, which had blackened and blistered his skin, and the salts that had entered the wound, its shape was lost to us, but I’ll not soon forget how it looked the day he died. Much the same as the other two.”
Karoya may have been awed by such lofty company as
Amonked, his sovereign’s cousin, but he was not so im pressed that he could not speak up. “I’d wager he was slain exactly like them. Come upon from behind, his head jerked back, and his throat slashed.”
“I see.” Amonked turned away from them, placed his hands on the parapet surrounding the platform, and stared westward toward the broad canal that connected the lake to the river. Bak doubted he noticed the traveling ship pulling away from the quay or heard the beat of the drummer who kept the rowers’ movements in harmony.
Swinging around, Amonked raised his hand to shade his eyes from the bright early morning sun and gave the pair a speculative look. “The two of you have come to me with a purpose. Tell me.”
“As the three murders appear to be related… No! As we’re convinced they are, we feel they should be treated as one.” Without thinking, Bak slapped a mosquito on his arm.
“Many people have come from afar to participate in the fes tival, making merry and giving no thought to right behavior.
The harbor and market are much more difficult to control than usual, leaving Lieutenant Karoya with insufficient time to seek a slayer.”
“And since you’re involved with the other deaths, you wish also to look into Maruwa’s murder.”
“To combine all three would make sense, sir.”
Loud laughter rang out from among the trees and brush abutting the slightly raised path that surrounded the lake and lined both sides of the canal. A scantily clad man ap peared, splashing through water left behind by the receding flood. Though he was some distance away, they could see he carried a harpoon, and a long string of fish dangled from his shoulder. Another man, cursing soundly, sidled through the morass, thrusting his harpoon time and time again. Wa ter splashed, a fish trying to save itself in the too shallow backwater.
“Should not Mai, the harbormaster, have some say in the matter?” Amonked asked.
“We spoke with him earlier.” Karoya ignored a rivulet of sweat working its way down his breastbone. “He feels as we do.”
Amonked stared at the pair of them, thinking, then gave a quick nod of his head. “All right. You’ve convinced me. The three crimes we’ll now count as one, and Bak will investi gate them all.” He looked pointedly at Karoya. “I trust you’ll be available to aid him, should he need your help?”
“Yes, sir.
“Do you have anything else to report, Lieutenant?”
Amonked asked Bak.
Bak told him of his conversation with the stablemaster, concluding with Maruwa’s account that had led to the recall of an envoy. “Are you familiar with the incident, sir? If not, would you look into the matter for me? Commander Min nakht didn’t know the name of the envoy and he was never told what happened to the one who involved himself in Hit tite politics. I believe the knowledge would be most helpful.”
A long silence, a certain sign that this was not the first time Amonked had heard the tale. “In what way can that af fair possibly be connected to the three murders?”
From the unhappy scowl on Amonked’s face, Bak guessed the story had been sealed away in a jar and forgot ten. Now here it was, thanks to him, rearing its ugly head anew. “It may not be, but how can I eliminate it if I don’t know the facts?”
Amonked clasped his hands behind him and paced back and forth. “What to do?” he muttered to himself.
“You surely know you can trust me, sir,” Bak said.
“I can leave, if you wish,” Karoya offered.
“No, no. It’s just that…” Amonked stopped in front of the two of them and eyed Bak. “You know the parties involved,
Lieutenant. Thus you place me in an awkward position.”
Bak was mystified. “I do?”
A triumphant yell rang out from the edge of the canal, and the fisherman raised his harpoon from the backwater.
Caught on the barbs was a small, limp fish, its silvery scales glistening in the sunlight. A gray and black projectile plum meted out of a nearby tree, a cry of alarm burst from the sec ond man, and a crow grabbed the fish and streaked away.
The trio on the platform failed to notice.
“Maatkare Hatshepsut appointed Pentu as envoy to the
Hittite court at Hattusa,” Amonked said. “He served her well for close on two years-or so she believed.”
Bak rapidly overcame his surprise. He recalled the sever al times he had met the governor, each time with the chief treasurer, and the many lofty guests who had been at his home. No wonder the incident in Hattusa had been kept quiet. To Karoya, he said, “Pentu is governor of the province of Tjeny.”
The young officer’s soft laugh held not a shred of humor.
“When word reached my cousin,” Amonked said, his tone ponderous, “she was inclined to ignore it, thinking Pentu a man of too much integrity to involve himself in the politics of another land. Her advisers, however-and I among them-convinced her he must be recalled. No one believed him to be the guilty party, but someone close to him was. He was compromised, so much so that he could no longer serve her needs.”
“Thus he was brought back to Kemet and someone else was sent to Hattusa in his place.” Bak rubbed the spot on his arm where the mosquito had been, rousing the itch. “Was the traitor ever identified?”
“As the activity stopped upon Pentu’s recall, the investi gation was dropped.”
“Perhaps it shouldn’t have been.” Bak flung a wry smile at
Karoya. “Pentu and the members of his household arrived in
Waset a few hours before Maruwa was slain. They’re still here and will remain throughout the festival.”
Amonked’s mouth tightened. “Pentu may be overly trust 134
Lauren Haney ing, but he’d not involve himself in the politics of another land. Nor would he kill, not even to silence a man capable of spreading a tale that would besmirch his character.”
“My hands are tied, sir, because men who might help me are fully occupied with the Opet rituals. Must I also be blinded because I dare not approach a man as lofty as
Pentu?” Bak knew he should have exercised more tact, but he thought Amonked a good enough friend to overlook the impertinence.
Amonked glared at the sentry kneeling in front of the main gate to the sacred precinct, scratching the belly of a black puppy. “I’ll speak with the vizier.” Forgiving Bak with a humorless smile, he grumbled, “He may wish you to reex amine the incident.”
So saying, he strode across the platform and up the path toward Ipet-isut. Bak, praying he had not leaped into waters too deep and swift to navigate, followed with Karoya. The young Medjay officer looked vastly relieved that he was not the man who might have to tread on such noble and lofty toes as those of a provincial governor.
“Is the ship on which Maruwa was slain still moored at the harbor?” Bak asked.
“It is, but not for long. Captain Antef came to me yester day, saying he wishes to set sail tomorrow. I saw no reason to hold him.”
“Tomorrow? Midway through the Beautiful Feast of
Opet?”
“Since unloading the horses, he’s taken on a new cargo.
He has a long voyage ahead of him, all the way to Ugarit, and carries objects that must be transported overland before winter falls.”
“What difference would five or six days make when the length of the voyage can vary greatly, depending upon the weather?” Bak raised his baton of office, saluting the sentry, who had shot to his feet the instant he noticed their approach. The puppy sat on its haunches, looking up at the man, crying. Bak followed his companions through the gate that opened into the limestone court in front of Ipet-isut.
“Sir,” he said to Amonked, “will you send an official order to the harbormaster? I wish Captain Antef’s ship to be de tained, its cargo guarded so nothing can be moved.”
“I resent being held here, Lieutenant.” Antef, standing in front of the forecastle of his ship, glared at Bak. “Must I be made to suffer merely because I had the misfortune of hav ing a man murdered on my vessel?”
“I’d think you’d look upon Maruwa as the unfortunate one.”
“I do. Of course I do.” The captain’s breast swelled with indignation. “Nonetheless, I should not be required to re main in Waset. I know nothing of his death except what I saw the day you found him.”
Bak stood with his back against the angle of the prow, looking the length of the deck, which appeared much differ ent from the last time he had been aboard. The mat walls of the deckhouse had been raised, allowing him to see all the way to the stern. The stalls had been removed, the piles of hay and bags of grain had been carried off, and the wooden flooring was so clean it glowed. Baskets and bundles and chests were stowed everywhere, not a large cargo, but enough, he assumed, to make an extended voyage worth while. Most of the crew had gone ashore. The two who re mained were toiling near the mast, talking together with the amity of men who have shared their tasks for months. When they believed themselves unobserved, they sneaked glances at Bak.
“You said at the time he may’ve been involved in Hittite politics. Do you know for a fact that he was?”
“A guess, that’s all.” Antef glanced around as if looking for something to sit on. Evidently the mounds of cargo lashed to the deck did not appeal, for he remained standing.
“A logical assumption. During all my voyages north, I’ve never seen a more bloodthirsty nation.”
“How often have you traveled in the land of Hatti?”
“Well… Never,” Antef admitted reluctantly. “But I’ve met many a man from there, and they’re all alike.”
Bak kept his expression bland, concealing his irritation with such generalities. “I’ve been told Maruwa was a fine man. Good-natured, hardworking, honest to a fault.”
Antef flushed. “He was different from the rest. A bit se cretive, but otherwise a good, cheerful companion on a long voyage. He cared for those horses he shipped as if they were beloved children. I know they were valuable, but still…”
The ship rocked beneath their feet, making the fittings creak, and the hull bumped hard against the mudbank beside which it was moored. One of the sailors, climbing up the mast, clung for his life and snapped out a chain of filthy oaths. The man seated on the deck below, unsnarling a tan gle of ropes, laughed heartily.
“Had you known him long?” Bak asked.
“Five years, maybe six.”
“Did he always transport the horses on your ship? Or did he use other vessels when this one wasn’t available?”
“Not many cargo ships are stable enough or have enough deck space to carry the numbers of animals he brought regu larly to Kemet. He knew of us all, and he used whichever vessel he found in Ugarit when he arrived. Or whichever was the first to reach that port if we all happened to be at sea.”
“What of his return journeys?”
“I’m quick to set sail-as are all of us who earn our bread on the water-and he usually stayed longer. Traveling alone, with no horses to transport, the size of the ship was of no im port. He could leave at any time on any vessel that happened to be sailing northward.”
Bak left the prow and walked slowly down the deck, look ing at baskets and bundles as he passed them by, reading la bels on the closed containers. Antef hurried after him like a mother goose concerned for her goslings. The cargo was di verse: the roughest of pottery and earthenware of a mediocre quality, leather goods, sheep skins, rough linen and fabric of a slightly higher quality, wine from a vineyard he had never heard of, strings of beads and other bright jewelry of small value. Scattered among these very ordinary trade items were bundles and baskets identified by their labels as containing finer goods. They appeared to have come from provincial es tates, although some had labels with ink so smeared they were illegible. Luxury items made within the household to be traded for a profit. Or so they seemed.
“Did you know Maruwa kept a woman in Waset?” Bak asked.
On a woven reed chest, he spotted a label he could not read: a flat chunk of dried mud tied to the handle, the sym bols scrawled and indecipherable. He knelt before the con tainer, broke the seal, and released the cord securing the lid.
Ignoring Antef’s shocked gasp, he looked inside. The chest was filled to the brim with fine linen.
“Damaged goods,” Antef hastened to tell him. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Bak read the tags on the surrounding containers and words inked on the shoulders of pottery jars. He found noth ing unusual or suspicious. Except the captain standing be side him, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the silence-or with Bak’s interest in his cargo.
“I knew he had a woman,” Antef said. “He never spoke of her, but the members of my crew would see them together in the market here or in the foreign quarter.”
Bak walked a few paces farther along the deck. Amid a stack of baskets, he spotted one labeled as having come from a provincial estate located considerably closer to Men nufer than to Waset. The nobleman might have brought the items south to trade in the teeming festival market, but the large port and market at Mennufer offered infinitely more possibilities for exchange.
Breaking the seal, he snapped the cord securing the lid and peered inside.
“Sir!” Antef exclaimed. “You can’t do that! The merchant who entrusted me with these items will hold me personally responsible.”
The basket held a dozen or more bronze cups and pitch ers. The linen might truly have been damaged goods, but these small, fine objects clearly were not. They had to be destined for the home of a wealthy nobleman or for the royal house of some far-off king.
“Send him to me or to Lieutenant Karoya. We’d be glad to explain our authority.”
Antef opened his mouth to object, but Bak’s cold stare si lenced him. They walked on, passing the sailor at the base of the mast. The man was toying with the ropes, acting busy, but the tangle had been unsnarled. Bak glanced upward, caught the man above leaning out from the masthead, star ing. The sailor pulled back and busied himself with a fitting.
Wondering how much the crew knew about the goods the vessel carried, Bak peered beneath the roof of the deckhouse.
Inside were the captain’s rolled sleeping pallet, a basket of personal items, and a few baskets of foodstuffs gathered for the coming voyage. One basket, so the label said, contained small bronze tools: harpoon heads, knives, needles, and so on. These were no doubt for daily shipboard use. Another, larger basket had no label at all. He broke the seal and cord, glanced at Antef. The captain was sweating profusely.
Bak lifted the lid and found ten or twelve small jars. They were unmarked, but he had seen enough during the several years he had conducted inspections at Buhen to guess that they held aromatic oils. Definitely not an ordinary trade item. A product much coveted by the wives and concubines of foreign kings. “This is your property, Captain?”
“No, sir.” Antef wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It belongs to the merchant whose goods I’m to deliver to Ugarit. He asked me to keep that bas ket out of the sun. Other than in the hold, where else could I stow it but here?”
“Are you transporting goods for only the one merchant, or for other men as well?”
“Just Zuwapi.”
Bak was not surprised by the captain’s easy revelation of the merchant’s identity. The name would be on the ship’s manifest and registered in the customs office. “A Hittite, if his name tells true.”
“Yes, sir. A highly respectable man, so I’ve been told.”
“Was he acquainted with Maruwa?”
“That I can’t say. He’s not as amiable as Maruwa was, so
I’d guess not.”
Bak was skeptical. The number of Hittites in Waset was small. “I must speak with him. Where can I find him?”
“He dwells in Mennufer and journeys often to Ugarit.”
Antef bared his teeth in a tenuous smile. “Where he is now, I can’t tell you.”
Bak muttered an oath. “If he’s not here in Waset, who sees that his cargo is properly loaded?”
“I do, sir. He sends me a list of what I’m to transport, and
I check off the items as they’re delivered to me.”
“He must be a trusting soul.”
“I’ve carried his trade goods for years, and I’ve never once failed to deliver each and every object to the port of his choice.” Antef stepped into Bak’s path so he could walk no farther along the deck. “Sir! You must speak up for me to the harbormaster. He must release my ship. I’ve goods on board that I must deliver to Ugarit for shipment by donkey train to cities farther inland.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
The promise was empty. Bak had no intention of letting the ship leave the harbor. The more valuable of the goods he had seen might well have come from a storehouse of the lord
Amon.
The lord Re was hovering above the western horizon when Bak walked into yet another open plot of ground con taining a well and a grove of date palms. This was the fifth well he had found in his thus far vain search for Maruwa’s concubine. The smell of burning fuel and the odors of foods being cooked for the evening meal wafted through the air, reminding him that another treat awaited him at his Med jays’ quarters, food gleaned by Pashenuro from the daily re version of offerings.
At the apex of the irregular triangle of scruffy grass was a well encircled by a wall, while a healthy grove of date palms filled the opposite end. Several acacias grew in a clump near the well, shading a mudbrick bench. Two women sat there, chatting with five others. One of those who stood balanced a large water jar on her head, while the others supported simi lar jars on their hips. Two jars stood at the feet of the women occupying the bench.
The woman holding the jar on her head noticed Bak, mur mured something to her friends, and they stopped talking to stare as he approached them.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak. I’m looking for a woman who may dwell nearby.” He kept his expression grave, hoping to dis courage light conversation and questions. “I must speak with her of a matter of note. A very serious matter.”
A young woman holding a jar on her hip flashed bold eyes at him. “Her name, sir?”
“Irenena.”
“The Hittite’s woman,” she said, exchanging a look with the others.
“What do you need of her?” a seated woman asked.
“Has she not had enough unhappiness?” the woman with the jar on her head asked. “Must you give her more?”
“Leave her be,” another woman said. “Let her mourn her loss in peace.”
He raised a hand, silencing them. “I’m seeking the man who took the Hittite’s life. With luck she can help me lay hands on him.”
Again the women looked at one another, sharing a thought. The oldest in the crowd spoke for them all:
“She’d want to see his slayer punished. I’ll take you to her.”
“They’ve been very kind to me.” Irenena stood beneath the pavilion on the rooftop outside her small home, looking down at the well and the women disappearing into several lanes leading to their dwellings. “I feared when I learned of his death they would turn their backs, thinking me the whore of a vile foreigner, left alone and helpless. But no. They knew I loved him and he loved me, and they respect that.”
“You’ve dwelt here long?” Bak asked.
“Maruwa brought me here almost ten years ago.”
The view below was most attractive, one few city dwellings offered. The dusty green of the trees, the white plastered wall around the well, and the white dwellings en closing the open area were softened by the late evening light. A yellow cat lapped water from a bowl left by some anonymous donor, while her kittens played hide and seek in the grass. A woman on the rooftop across the way crooned a song of love to her baby.
“May I offer you a jar of beer, Lieutenant?”
He accepted and followed her into the home she had made for herself and Maruwa. Her dwelling, in reality the second story of the building, consisted of a large room for living and sleeping, a tiny room for storage, and a kitchen with an open roof covered by loosely spread dry brush that would provide some shade and let out the smoke. The furnishings were sparse but of considerable value, many of the pillow covers, floor mats, and wall hangings imported from the northern lands through which Maruwa had traveled.
While she placed sweetcakes on a flat dish, he studied the comfortable room and the woman herself. Small and sturdy, she had dark hair sprinkled with white, and her round face was no longer youthful. Maruwa must surely have loved her as a wife, a woman to share his time with through eternity, not one to take and throw away.
“Shall we sit on the roof?” she asked. “The breeze is al ways lovely at this time of day.”
Following her outside, he said, “Before you came here, where did you dwell?”
She raised her chin and her voice took on a note of defi ance. “I was not what you think, sir. I was a respectable woman, a widow. A burden to my eldest brother, a servant to his wife. When Maruwa said he wanted me, I accepted his offer gladly. A rash move, perhaps, a situation that could have ended as rapidly as it began, with me impoverished and alone. Instead our love grew and now here I am, a widow in my heart if not in reality. Unlike before, Maruwa left me suf ficient means to take care of myself.”
“I meant no offense, mistress. I’ve been told he usually re mained in Waset long after he delivered his horses to the royal stables.” Bak allowed a smile to touch his lips. “I doubted he stayed behind for the animals’ sake, nor would he have been long detained by a plaything.”
The rigidity went out of her stance, and she mirrored his smile. “Will you sit with me, sir?” she asked, nodding to ward a reed mat spread out beneath the pavilion.
After he complied, she set the cakes beside him and of fered a jar of beer. The breeze, as she had predicted, wafted gently across the rooftop, bringing with it the scent of flow ers.
“How can I help you?” she asked, seating herself on the opposite side of the bowl. “I wish justice done, punishment for my beloved’s slayer while still he lives as well as in the netherworld.”
Bak took a drink of beer, savoring the warm, rather thick but tasty brew. “Was Maruwa involved in Hittite politics?”
He no longer believed the merchant would have become so foolishly embroiled, but of all the people he had talked to, she would know best.
“What on earth gave you that idea? He was the least po litical man I’ve ever met.”
“Did he ever speak of the politics of Kemet, of our two sovereigns, one seated on the throne at Waset and the other occupying the royal house in Mennufer?”
“He thought the situation odd, but who doesn’t? Espe cially men and women from other lands, places where life is harsher and kingship more precarious.” She must have real ized he wished her to be more specific and shook her head.
“No, sir, he showed no more concern with the affairs of
Kemet than with those of his homeland.”
“On the day he died, I’ve been told, he never left the ves sel on which he brought the horses. Most of the sailors dis embarked, as did the captain, but he chose to remain on board with the animals.”
“He would have.” Rather than taking into her mouth the morsel of sweetcake she held, she dropped her hand to her lap as if she had lost her taste for the delicacy. “They were his responsibility. He’d have stayed with them until they were safely delivered to the royal stables.”
“You didn’t see him at all that day?”
“No, sir.” The words caught in her throat; she paused, re gaining control. “I never knew exactly when to expect him.
Sometimes upon his arrival he’d summon me, but not often.
He preferred that I wait here in the comfort of our home rather than wander around the market while he cared for the horses. If only…” She bit her lip, cutting short whatever she had intended to say, acknowledging the futility of regrets.
Bak took a sweetcake, more for politeness sake than be cause he wanted it. “Did he ever speak to you of a scribe named Woserhet or a priest named Meryamon? Both men toiled in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon.”
“I don’t remember those names.” Irenena frowned at the cake crumbled in her hand. “He was not of a religious na ture, and he was certainly not interested in our gods. On the rare occasion when he felt the need for prayer, he spoke to the gods of his own land.”
“Did he mention a man named Pentu? He served our sov ereign as an envoy in Hattusa.”
“Pentu.” She threw the crumbs onto the open rooftop.
Several sparrows darted from the date palms to the low para pet, then hopped down for the treat. “I’ve no memory of the name.”
“He was and is now governor of Tjeny.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “How could I have for gotten? Yes, Maruwa did speak of him. He said the man had a viper within his household.”
Bak could barely believe his good luck. “When was this?”
“During his last visit to Kemet seven or eight months ago.”
“Did he explain himself?”
“No. I thought the words curious and pressed for details, but he said…” Suddenly her hand shot to her mouth and she looked stricken. “Oh, my!”
He leaned forward, laid his hand on her wrist. “What is it, mistress Irenena? What’s the matter?”
“He said he thought he knew the name, but wanted to make doubly sure before passing it on to Commander Min nakht when next he came to Waset. Why did I not insist he do so at that time? Why?”
Bak regretted the storm of tears that followed and prayed the release would be as valuable to her as was the informa tion she had given him. The odds were good that Maruwa had verified the name and had planned to give it to the sta blemaster the day he was slain.
Bak walked back to his men’s quarters along rapidly dark ening lanes filled with merrymakers. He had not been able to console Irenena, but had managed to convince her that she was in no way responsible for Maruwa’s death. The decision to remain mute had been his alone.
Besides, Bak was not convinced the so-called viper had slain the merchant. Maruwa had been in Waset for less than two hours when his life was taken. How would that vile creature have learned of his knowledge in so short a time?
True, Pentu’s traveling ship had reached the harbor not long before the cargo ship, but even if Maruwa had bumped into the man, he would not have been so foolish as to reveal what he knew.
Another thought nagged. What could stirring up trouble in the land of Hatti possibly have to do with the storehouses of Amon? Had he erred in thinking the three deaths were re lated? If someone was stealing from the god and smuggling the items to a foreign land, as he suspected, would it not be wiser for that individual to do nothing that might attract offi cial attention?
Bak stumbled over a mallet someone had left in the lane.
Cursing himself for not watching his step, he walked on.
Again his thoughts wandered. The hours he had spent in the foreign quarter, the many men and women he had walked among and talked to, some of them Hittites, had brought back memories of the one woman among many that he had never forgotten. A Hittite woman. He could see her smile, hear her voice, feel her courage and strength of will. No one had ever taken her place. No one ever would.
Had he been unfair to Meret, Pentu’s wife’s sister? Had he inadvertently led her to believe a relationship might develop between them?