Bak did not reach Djeser Djeseru until late in the day. He found Pashed seated, elbows on knees, head in hands, on a stone cube at the end of the partially completed southern section of the upper colonnade. The chief architect was alone, with no other man nearby. Workmen at the opposite end of the incomplete colonnade had just hauled an architrave up the construction ramp and were preparing to position it across the space between two columns. The foreman was cursing, urging the men to greater effort before the lord Re entered the netherworld and darkness fell. The men were grumbling because they wished to postpone the task until the next morning.
The crunch of Bak’s sandals on grit roused Pashed, who raised his head to see who was approaching. Bak was alarmed by how distraught the architect looked. His face was drawn, lines were deeply etched around his mouth.
“Pashed! What’s troubling you?”
Pashed rubbed his eyes, as if trying to wipe away whatever adversity had brought about such worry. “Each time I feel the gods have chosen at last to favor me, they once again turn their backs.”
“Not another accident, I pray!”
A bitter smile flitted across the architect’s face. “No accident, Lieutenant. Only an inspection by Senenmut himself. Our sovereign’s favorite and the man to whom I’m responsible.”
Bak could not understand why Pashed was so upset. True, Senenmut was the Overseer of Overseers of All the Works of the King (as Maatkare Hatshepsut had begun to call herself), and he claimed Djeser Djeseru as his creation, but. . “This can’t be the first time he’s come.”
“He comes monthly, and more often if a decision of import must be made.”
The cheeping of baby birds drew Bak’s eye to a nest built in a crack at the join of the roof and the retaining wall behind the colonnade. He glimpsed a swallow feeding its voracious young. He never ceased to be amazed at how fast the wild creatures took as their own the dwellings of man. “Why is this inspection different?”
“Montu is dead and I stand alone at the head of this building effort. You, who were brought specifically to put an end to the accidents, have been here six days, yet they continue as before. The malign spirit, or the man I’ll always think of as that vile specter, continues to walk this valley, wreaking havoc wherever he treads, and you seem unable to stop him.
Now tomb robbers have come.”
Bak was irritated by a charge he felt unfair, but he spoke with the patience a mother must show a whimpering babe.
“You’re not a man alone, Pashed. Except for designing the temple and seeing that the men do what they must to build and adorn it, Amonked shares your burden of responsibility.
You’ve also Lieutenant Menna and me. He’ll sooner or later lay hands on the tomb robbers, and I’ll snare the malign spirit and stop the accidents-and I’ll catch the man who slew Montu.” He thought it best not to reveal that he believed the deaths of Dedu and Huni to be murder.
“The men talk of laying down their tools and walking away from this valley,” Pashed said, as if he had not heard.
“They vow never to return, letting the temple remain as it is, allowing it to languish through eternity.”
Bak felt like shaking him. He had reason to be troubled, to be sure, but he had no need to exaggerate. “My scribe and my Medjay have spoken with many of the men in the past few days. True, the threat to flee hovers at the edge of their thoughts, and they cling to their belief in the malign spirit, but so far common sense has prevailed.”
“For how long?”
Bak knelt before the architect and laid a hand on his lower arm. The mother swallow hurtled past their heads on her endless quest for insects. “You must not allow yourself to fall in defeat, Pashed. Your problems will be resolved.”
The architect refused to meet his eyes. “You told me of the accident on the river and I saw for myself the rock slide.
I didn’t see you thrown into the old robbers’ shaft, but I heard of it. That’s three attempts to slay you in three days.
What’s to prevent the malign spirit-the man posing as that vile being-from slaying you while Senenmut is here?”
So that was the problem. Pashed feared another death, this one right before Senenmut’s eyes. The thought was discon-certing, chilling. Rising to his feet, Bak formed a reassuring smile. “I can assure you I’ll do everything in my power to see that nothing happens to me.”
“What’s to prevent some other catastrophe from occurring? What if an attempt is made on his life?”
Bak hesitated before answering. He hated to go again to Maiherperi, but was very much aware that thus far he had been unable to stop the incidents at Djeser Djeseru. On the contrary, the situation seemed to have escalated. If the goal was to stop construction, as he was beginning to suspect, what better way than to do harm to Senenmut? “I’ll speak with Commander Maiherperi and ask him to send an extra company of men with Senenmut. With luck and the favor of the gods, the malign spirit won’t dare strike.”
The architect was not consoled. “If a scandal rocks this project, he’ll send me far away to the desert wastes of Wawat, making me stand at the head of a gang of prisoners working a remote gold mine.”
One thing Bak knew for a fact: with Pashed so frightened for his future, he could not possibly be a party to any effort to disrupt construction at Djeser Djeseru. “When will Senenmut’s inspection take place?”
“Three days from now.”
Bak muttered an oath. Not much time, he thought. Not nearly enough time to lay hands on a man when he had not the vaguest idea who he was. “I’ll go see Maiherperi right away.”
“Where a king lies through eternity, his family and courtiers are nearby,” Bak said, airing the thought for what he feared was the hundredth time. He stood beside the white seated statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut, staring at the ruined temple beyond the sandy waste on which the workmen’s huts stood. “The men we came upon last night undoubtedly believe so, too.”
Hori, looking glum, eyed the temple whose pavement he had trod for so many long hours through the morning. “We found no sign of a tomb, sir, and not for lack of trying.”
“I know.” Bak eyed a gang of men on the terrace where he, the scribe, and Kasaya had revealed themselves to the workmen the night before. The crew was using a large wooden rocker to raise a heavy stone onto their sledge.
“Nonetheless, their presence and the fact that the malign spirit frequents that temple has convinced me a tomb is yet to be found somewhere within.”
“Maybe the men taking stone from the ruins will uncover it,” the scribe said. “We won’t. We searched the building so often and know it so well that we’d not recognize a tomb if the deceased leaped out and dragged us inside.”
Smiling, Bak laid an arm across the youth’s shoulders and ushered him toward the ramp. “I must go to Waset and you must go with me.”
“Waset?” Hori looked crestfallen at the sun, peering over the western peak, signaling that within an hour or so he could go home to his evening meal.
“We must seek out the priest Kaemwaset. I’ve a task for you, which you must begin tomorrow, but you’ll need help.”
“You wish the boy to search the archives.” Kaemwaset, seated on a low stool in the murky light of a storage room that smelled strongly of fish, let the scroll in his lap roll closed. He pursed his mouth, thinking it over. “I don’t see why he can’t, but he’ll need the approval of the chief archivist.”
“Amonked will see he has it,” Bak said.
“What does he look for, may I ask?”
Bak stepped inside the door and pulled Hori with him.
The room was dark enough without the two of them block-ing what little light came through. “Records of the old temples and tombs, specifically those of the reign of Nebhepetre Montuhotep and his immediate family.”
“Hmmm.” The priest’s eyes leaped toward the boy, but he spoke to Bak. “You’re asking a lot, sir. The task could take days without number and still he could come up empty-handed.”
Bak had often heard his father complain about the archives, thrown into disorder by years of neglect and wan-ton destruction when the rulers of Kemet had weakened and lost a portion of the country to the vile foreign princes from far to the east. It had been the worthy ancestors-or so she claimed-of Maatkare Hatshepsut who had waged war on the wretched intruders and consolidated the kingdom.
Surely after so many years had passed, the situation had improved. “Aren’t the records in some kind of order?”
Kaemwaset laid the scroll on the floor with his writing implements. They had found him taking inventory in a room stacked high with bundles of dried fish. Unless the priest had lost his sense of smell altogether, Bak felt sure he and Hori were doing him a favor by interrupting.
“Most are in excellent order, but have you any idea how many scrolls are stored there?”
“When I was a boy, my father spent many hours in the archives. I remember well my impatience to be gone, while he went from room to room and from jar to jar, seeking some obscure text about healing.”
Kaemwaset motioned toward the door, signaling them to precede him out of the room. “Ah, yes. Your father is the physician Ptahhotep. He’s been a frequent visitor to the archives for as long as I can remember.”
“You know him?” Bak asked, surprised.
“Very well indeed. I toiled in the hall of records for several years when first I came to the mansion of the lord Amon. Before you were of an age to come with him.” The priest glanced at Hori and smiled. “I think the idea was to eliminate my childish exuberance by giving me tasks of an exceedingly boring nature.”
Hori grinned. “I thank the lord Amon time and time again that my first task was with Lieutenant Bak and his company of Medjays and we were sent far away to the southern frontier.” No one could mistake the sincerity in his voice.
Bak ruffled the young scribe’s hair. “Will you help Hori, Kaemwaset? Will you show him around the archives? Show him the system for filing the documents and how to find them?” Bak, aware that the lesser priests were assigned tasks they had to complete and were not always free to do as they liked, added, “If you can’t help him, can you tell me who can?”
“I must get permission from the fourth prophet, of course, but I’d be delighted to aid him.” Kaemwaset glanced at the doorway behind him and wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“You’ve no idea how weary I am of the mundane tasks I’m given each time I’ve finished my regular duties.”
He offered to help them obtain permission right away, then smiled and rubbed his hands together, demonstrating his eagerness. “Your task promises to be most interesting, Lieutenant, and rather daunting.”
“In what way?”
“Many of the old records were lost during the time of chaos, before our sovereign’s ancestors gained control of the land of Kemet. We ofttimes find one or two related documents where originally there may’ve been ten or twenty scrolls. Sometimes we find none and sometimes we find them all. We never know.”
“I ask only that you do the best you can.”
“I agree,” Maiherperi said, pacing the length of the shallow reflecting pool, Bak by his side. “We must do all within our power to see that no attempt is made on Senenmut’s life.
You were wise to come to me.”
“I pray an extra company of guards will be sufficient.”
Maiherperi gave him a sharp look. “Do you know something you’re not telling me, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, but. .”
“Speak up! I detest men who seal their lips, forcing me to discover unpleasant truths for myself.”
His sharp voice startled a brown goose, which took to the air and flew low over the pool, throwing its shadow across several clusters of water lilies growing from pots scattered around the bottom. A frog sitting on a pad leaped into the water with a splash. Alarmed, a flock of egrets skimmed the surface of the flooded garden with a whir of wings, wheeled around, and settled back down to feed. A slight breeze carried the strong, sweet scent of the lilies, whose petals were closing at the end of day.
Bak smiled to himself. Maiherperi had not changed since first he had met him. He was a straightforward, honest man and he demanded the same candor from others. “Several days ago, a priest suggested that the malign spirit was created to discredit our sovereign, to make her look weak in the eyes of her people. I’ve never taken the idea seriously, and if you ask me why, I can’t give you a good reason. But if I’ve erred. .”
“Why would a man injure and slay so many people if not on a matter of import?” The commander looked puzzled, more by Bak’s doubts than by the question itself.
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“You must realize that the most likely individual to wish our sovereign ill is her co-ruler and stepson Menkheperre Thutmose.”
“He’s not that kind of man, sir.” Bak, like many men in the army the young king had begun to rebuild after years of neglect by Maatkare Hatshepsut, truly believed he should be the sole ruler of the land of Kemet, wielding the power of office his father’s sister-widow had grasped while the boy was hardly more than a babe.
The commander’s voice turned wry. “One never knows how low the best of men will stoop when the object they desire is tempting enough. However, I’m convinced that young man is much too preoccupied with playing soldier in Mennufer. The thought of wreaking havoc at Djeser Djeseru would never enter his heart.”
“I agree, sir,” Bak said vehemently.
“One of his followers might-or hers, for that matter-if they wished to cause trouble. But why spill a jar of wine when it holds considerably more pleasure when drunk from a bowl? Especially since both Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose seem content with the situation as it is.”
Relieved that the commander had chosen to remain neutral rather than side with the woman to whom he reported, Bak decided to air a thought that had been nagging him throughout the day. “I’ve begun to think the malign spirit is more interested in personal gain than in who holds the reins of power in the land of Kemet.”
Maiherperi conferred upon him a long, speculative look.
“Tell me.”
“Are you aware of the old jewelry that’s been found on ships bound for far-off lands? Jewelry that had to have been taken from tombs dug during the reigns of Nebhepetre Montuhotep and his family?”
“Amonked has told me, yes.”
Bak went on to tell the commander of all that had occurred since he had first set foot on Djeser Djeseru. While he talked, they walked side by side along the white graveled paths that ran through the lush garden behind the royal house. Flowers in a multitude of colors, herbs, and shrubs graced walkways shaded by palms, sycamores, acacias, and tamarisks. Mon-keys swung through the trees, setting bright birds to flight.
Gazelles, too shy to draw near, shared the flooded garden with egrets and ducks and other wading birds.
Ending his account, he asked, “What better way for tomb robbers to direct our thoughts away from their nighttime activities than to create a malign spirit who’s not merely frightening but dangerous as well?”
“What better way?” Maiherperi agreed. “If you’re right, if this is a simple matter of tomb robbery, Senenmut’s life is not necessarily at risk.”
“Such would be my guess. However, if the robbers have found-or believe they’re close to finding-a tomb of great potential value that they don’t dare break into as long as the workmen remain at Djeser Djeseru, they might well bring about a fearsome accident while he’s there. One so horrendous he’ll recommend to our sovereign that the project be stopped and the valley abandoned.”
“She’ll never stop construction of her memorial temple. It means too much to her. Not simply for the continued offerings it will glean for her journey through eternity, but for the message it will carry of her divine birth and all her accomplishments while she sits on the throne.”
“I’d wager she’d stop the effort for a month or two, given sufficient reason.”
“Such as?”
“If she could be led to believe that, to stop the accidents, she must propitiate the lord Amon during some important occasion.” Bak paused, building his thoughts, nodded. “For example, during the Opet festival, which will take place in a few weeks. Construction would be delayed, not stopped entirely, and would give the robbers time to enter and rifle the tomb without fear of being caught.”
“Have you heard such a rumor?”
“No, sir, but any similar tale would do. Or another serious accident where men are injured and lives lost. The workmen are already talking of laying down their tools and leaving the valley. They came very close to doing so after the last rock slide.”
“You’ve given this some thought, I see.” Maiherperi swung around and headed back to the building that housed the royal guards. “I’ll make sure Senenmut’s well guarded while at Djeser Djeseru, and warn the officer in charge to expect the worst. Then we must all bend a knee to the lord Amon, praying the worst doesn’t happen.”
Later, as Bak prepared to leave, he paused beneath the portico outside the building where Maiherperi toiled. “I’ve yet to thank you, sir, for sending a man to look to my father’s well-being.”
The commander smiled. “Sergeant Huy is one of my best men, awaiting reassignment to the royal house in Mennufer.
You’ve nothing to worry about with him standing guard.”
The sky had darkened, Bak saw, and the lord Re had long ago entered the netherworld, allowing the stars to show their faces. He hoped he could find a boatman to ferry him across the river in the night. “I’ve spent the last two nights at Djeser Djeseru, so I don’t know how my father feels about having a man in constant attendance.”
“From what I’ve been told, he made no secret that he resented the need for a guard, but he doesn’t hold the sergeant responsible. In fact, he treats him as a friend and companion rather than holding him at a distance.”
Thanking the lord Amon for small favors, Bak trudged down the lane to the gate, bade good night to the sentry, and walked out into the darkened city.
The world was black, with the quarter moon pale and weak. Stars were sprinkled like bright grains of salt across the sky. Bak heard the rustle of a small unseen creature slipping through the tough dry grass that grew along the irrigation channel. A hare bounded across the path in front of him, leaving a melon patch to hide within a field of henna. Indistinct images off to his right were all he could see of cattle resting in a neighbor’s field of stubble. The distant cry of a jackal set off a chorus of barking dogs. The air was cool and smelled of the manure spread across a fallow field.
His father’s house was dark, Ptahhotep no doubt asleep.
He saw no sign of the guard, but assumed Sergeant Huy would show himself when he spotted him approaching in the dark. To make sure the sergeant did not set upon him, thinking him an intruder, he began to whistle.
He approached the paddock where his horses lazed away their days, fully expecting the guard to appear. He saw no one. The shed, a small and unattractive but sturdy structure at the other end of the paddock, was dark, the horses safely inside for the night. The back of the structure and one end were mudbrick, the remains of a partially fallen building. A wooden front and second end had been tacked on and a new roof built when Bak had brought the animals from the garrison stables. They were much too valuable to leave outside each night, risking theft.
Walking along the paddock wall, he began a livelier refrain. Still the guard did not appear. A sense of unease washed through him. He stopped whistling and stepped up his pace, trotting past the wall and across the plot of grass in front of the house. The silence was unnerving, the failure of the guard to appear disturbing.
He ducked beneath the portico, his eyes on the wooden door. As dark as it was, he could see that it stood slightly ajar and a man lay crumpled on the ground before it. Alarmed, he took a quick step forward. His foot struck something and he lost his balance. He grabbed a wooden column to save himself, spotted the long spear he had stepped on, dropped onto a knee to see who the man was. The face was unknown to him, but the spear and the white cowhide shield beside the limp body identified him as a guard of the royal house.
Sergeant Huy, the man Maiherperi had assigned to keep his father safe!
The guard was breathing. Bak found no open wounds on his broad back or chest, but when he ran his fingers over the thick short hair, he discovered a large wet lump on the back of his head. The sergeant had been struck down by a hard blow. As he could do nothing for the man, he rose to his feet, stepped over him, and pushed the door wide.
The loud, terrified scream of a horse and the clatter of hooves on a hard-packed earthen floor sounded in the shed.
He stiffened. His father could as easily be with the horses as within the house, trying to save the animals from. . From theft or worse?
Snapping out a curse, he leaped from beneath the portico and raced across the scraggly grass toward the paddock.
Vaulting the wall, he veered around the water trough and sped toward the shed. Another shriek of equine panic gave wings to his feet, as did thoughts of his father alone and in desperate need of help. Bursting through the doorway, which should not have been open but was, he stopped abruptly.
A minimum of light came through the high window on the mudbrick end of the building, but his eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as they would ever be. Both horses, tied to stone hitches near the manger, were scream-ing, bucking, kicking out, trying to break free, trying to escape from whatever they feared. Ptahhotep was not there.
Bak’s first thought was a snake, perhaps a deadly cobra or some other poisonous reptile crawling through the straw strewn across the floor. Before he could dwell on the thought, a loud crack sounded against the doorjamb beside his head. Another struck somewhere inside the shed, adding to the horses’ frenzy.
A sling! Someone was pelting the animals with rocks. Not large killing rocks, but smaller stones designed to sting and make them panic. He glimpsed the head and shoulders of a man at the window. The image vanished at the blink of an eye. He swung around, thinking to give chase, but stopped himself. In their hysteria the horses could break a leg or injure themselves or each other in some other fashion. They must be calmed quickly so he could go back to the house and his father.
Forcing himself to be patient, to appear unruffled-at least to the horses-he left the doorway and sidled around those flying hooves. He approached Defender, the horse farthest from the window, slowly from the side, careful to make no sudden or threatening moves, murmuring words that had no meaning. The sound of his familiar voice, his cautious approach, the absence of further flying stones, quieted both animals’ screams and stilled their frantic bucking. As poor as the light was, he could see their trembling limbs, and when he reached out to catch Defender’s rope halter, he felt his flesh quiver.
Without warning, the horse jerked his head. Victory snorted in terror and at the same time Bak smelled smoke.
He pivoted, spat out a curse. The door was closed and fire curled under the bottom edge. The straw!
He raced toward the door, tried to shove it open. It held tight, barred, he felt sure, by the man he had seen at the window. He stamped out the flames reaching out beneath it, but other bits of straw fueled the spreading fire. The horses screamed hysterically, bucked and kicked out, shook their heads and jerked backward, trying to free themselves of the ropes that held them fast.
Bak checked his own fear, the desperate need to escape that stifled common sense and straight thinking. He knew the shed well. He had helped build it. And he knew its weak-nesses.
He darted around Defender, the flying hooves, and grabbed a wooden rake standing in the corner. Using its butt end as a battering ram, he struck out at the join between the wood and the mudbrick. A crack formed between the two.
He forced the rake handle into the gap and pried the wood farther from the brick. The dowels connecting the first two boards broke with a loud crack.
He flung the rake aside, raised his foot, and kicked the board as hard as he could. The cords binding it to the roof tore away and it crashed onto the ground. A family of rats scurried out through the hole and disappeared in the darkness. Trying not to breathe the smoke that filled the shed, ignoring the crackle of the fire sweeping across the floor, the clatter of hooves, the terrified equine screams, Bak kicked another board loose and another and another until the space was wide enough for a horse to go through.
Satisfied with the hole, he swung around and stared, appalled. The straw was burning all across the floor, and flames were licking the legs of the frantic horses. He could smell their singed hair. He scooped up the rake and swung it from side to side, sweeping a path through the burning straw, pushing as much as he could away from the panicked animals.
Dropping the tool, he tore his dagger from its sheath and cut through the knot that held his kilt in place. He lunged at Defender, flung the kilt around the horse’s head, blinding it, and slashed through the rope that held it captive. Catching the halter, he led the trembling, terrified animal through the hole in the wall and away from the burning shed, jerked the kilt off its head, and slapped it on the flank to send it to the opposite side of the paddock.
He raced back inside. The grain in the manger had begun to smolder, making it hard to breathe, and all the bits of straw scattered across the floor were flaming like tinder. The palm frond roof was burning, snapping and popping and shooting out sparks. Ignoring the heat, the smoke, the stench, he hurried to Victory. The horse sidled away, as afraid of him and the cloth in his hand as it was of the fire.
He grabbed the rope holding the animal in place. It reared back, flung its head, flailed out with its front hooves.
Bak ducked, saving himself, and lunged at the horse to grab its halter and throw his kilt over its head. Holding both with one hand, he severed the restraining rope, got a better grip on the halter, and urged the trembling horse across the shed and through the gap in the wall. Outside, he jerked the kilt from its head and slapped its flank with the fabric to send it across the paddock to its mate.
He looked back at the shed. Its blazing roof collapsed, setting off a shower of sparks, and flames were leaping out of the cracks between the boards. Soon nothing would be left but the mudbrick walls, and they would probably fall.
Turning away, thanking the lord Amon for standing beside him while he saved himself and the horses, he walked slowly to the water trough. He dipped his kilt in the none too clean water and wiped his sweaty face. Tension and effort had worn him out.
A movement beneath the portico in front of the house caught his eye. The guard hoisting himself into a sitting position, staring at the burning shed.
Father! Bak thought. Forgetting his exhaustion, half sick with worry, he raced across the paddock, leaped the wall, and sped to the house.