“I don’t understand how they could get away with it for so long.” Ptahhotep, standing near the paddock wall, shook his head in amazement. “Are the cemetery guards so blind?”
“Menna was their officer,” Bak said, looking over the neck of Defender, whose long mane he was combing. “As far as I could tell, they didn’t once suspect him. As one of them said: How could they think him guilty of the very crime he was supposed to prevent?”
“They could’ve at least kept their eyes open.” Amonked, standing beside Bak’s father, scowled his disapproval.
“Their failure to uphold the laws of the land, to satisfy the demands of the lady Maat, is unforgivable.”
His porters and carrying chair sat in the dwindling evening light beneath the sycamore tree, awaiting their master’s departure. Even with darkness fast approaching, he seemed in no hurry to go on his way.
Bak thought of the men he had talked with before leaving Djeser Djeseru, hunkered around him in the shadow of their hut, crushed by their failure to do their duty and afraid of the consequences. “They must be punished, to be sure, but I’d not be too hard on them, sir. Other than Pashed, who had no time to oversee them properly, they had no one to look to for guidance.”
“I suppose far more sepulchers are robbed than we’ll ever know-many with the help of a guard or two,” Ptahhotep said thoughtfully. “Just think of the temptation. Walking day after day among the tombs, imagining the wealth lying beneath their feet.”
Bak caught a handful of mane and began to comb out a knot. Defender whinnied, though his master was sure he was not hurting him. “Not even priests are exempt from temptation. Kaemwaset told me a tale so appalling it would curl our sovereign’s ceremonial beard.”
Ptahhotep shifted his stance, the better to watch Kasaya spread a thin poultice on Victory’s singed rear legs. “Did Pairi and Humay reveal all before. .?” He let his voice tail off and looked expectantly at his son and Amonked, who had not yet told him exactly what had happened.
“Before they swallowed the poison?” Bak shook his head.
“No, but they said enough to verify what we’d guessed.”
“I’d not take my own life like that,” Kasaya said, looking up from his task. “I’d try to escape and take an arrow in the back rather than give myself a deadly potion.”
Hori, seated on the wall, measured a length of linen against his arm. Using a sharp knife, he cut it off and handed it to the Medjay. “How could they escape?” he asked scornfully. “They were surrounded by royal guards.”
Kasaya glared at his friend. “If Menna knew those desert trails, the fishermen did, too. Remember, they played together as children, hunted together as youths.”
“You remember!” Hori demanded. “Those guards bound their arms with wooden manacles and their ankles with strong leather thongs. Then, instead of staying where they should’ve on the trail above Djeser Djeseru, they hustled them off to the workmen’s village and held them within its walls.”
“They snared the two atop the cliff before they could do more damage,” Kasaya said, defending the guards more for the sake of argument than because he cared, Bak felt sure.
“How were they to know the worst of the lot was running toward them?”
Bak wondered how he would be able to tolerate the pair’s squabbling for another month or so, until Commandant Thuty and the others arrived from Buhen and they would all travel on together to Mennufer. He had not been gone long, but he missed them already: Nebwa, Imsiba, Nofery, his Medjays-everyone. “I know you must return to the city,”
he said to Amonked, “but before you go, will you share a jar of wine to celebrate the end of the malign spirit?”
As the three men walked to the house, Ptahhotep asked,
“What brought the workmen onto the terrace? Did someone tell them you were chasing the malign spirit along the rim of the cliff?”
“Pashed.” Bak had to smile. “Like me, as soon as he saw Menna run, he was certain of his guilt. I’d warned him not to reveal the wretched creature’s identity, but he couldn’t help himself. I can’t say I blame him. Would I have been able to hold my silence if I’d stood in his sandals, having watched my work crews suffer injury and death, having seen the most important task of my life being destroyed by a man bent on malicious destruction?”
“Now tell me what you believe they’ve been doing. And get on with it!” Ptahhotep’s smile made a lie of his pretended impatience. “Do you wish Amonked’s wife to send servants out in the dead of night, fearing him attacked by ruffians?”
Amonked, seated beside the physician on a low stool beneath the portico, appeared unworried by the possibility.
“Menna was a cousin to Pairi and Humay. The fishermen have been robbing tombs since they were children-or so the mayor of western Waset believes-and Menna probably went with them as often as he could.” He took a sip of the deep red wine, which smelled of fresh grapes, and smacked his lips in approval. “An uncle who dwelt in one of the local villages used them to crawl through holes too small for a man.”
“When the uncle died, they struck out on their own.” Bak dropped onto the earthen floor beside his father. “Thanks to his years of instruction, they knew the types of tombs most likely to contain riches and where best to locate them. They found enough treasure to satisfy them, but as their market was local, they had to break up all objects of worth and melt down the gold. Which decreased their gain considerably.”
“Pieces of value would be suspect throughout the land of Kemet,” Ptahhotep agreed, “especially when offered by mere fishermen.”
Amonked plucked a small salted fish from a bowl beside his feet. Tracker, lying a pace or so away, opened an eye but scorned the contents so temptingly set before him. “They could easily have made an honest living on the river, but chose also to defy the lady Maat. Why they pursued so dangerous a path is beyond me.”
Bak, caught with his mouth full, swallowed. “The same could be said of Menna, who’d been schooled to read and write and entered the army at an early age. He had every opportunity to lead an honest and honorable life, but chose instead a quest for riches.”
“Perhaps thieving was in their blood,” the physician said, looking thoughtful.
“One never knows of course, but Menna, at least, might’ve turned his back on a life of crime if the lord Set hadn’t smiled upon him.” Amonked took a sip of wine, added, “He served as scribe to several envoys to various city states at the eastern end of the Great Green Sea, and there he met men who coveted the baubles of the noble and royal personages of Kemet.”
“Potential customers,” Ptahhotep commented.
Nodding, Bak said, “About six years ago he came back to Waset. He was posted initially in the garrison, serving as one of several scribes in the commandant’s office.” His tone turned dry, cynical. “Again the lord Set favored him. His first assignment was to organize the older files and take them to the hall of records for storage in the archives. He immediately recognized the possibilities and ingratiated himself with the chief archivist. Within a short time he learned how to search the records and was given free rein to do so.”
Ptahhotep picked up a large, cylindrical jar with a tall, thin neck and refilled their drinking bowls. “So he had available to him the same documents Kaemwaset and Hori found.”
“Others as well.” Amonked released a long, unhappy sigh.
“We’ve no idea how many scrolls he destroyed.”
The physician’s mouth tightened. “Any man who would do such a thing. .”
Bak laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, quieting him.
“Thanks to a document he found a little over four years ago, they located a royal sepulcher, the ultimate goal of every tomb robber in the land of Kemet. This was the final resting place of Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s Great Royal Wife Neferu, which is in the valley where Djeser Djeseru is presently being built.” He glanced at Hori and Kasaya, approaching the house through the gathering darkness, cutting short the call of a night bird. “The sepulcher had long ago been rifled, its contents stolen or destroyed, but they found a few pieces of jewelry hidden in a cleverly concealed niche. Very valuable pieces. Never before had they entered a royal tomb, and this made them hungry for more royal trinkets.”
“The pieces we found in Buhen came from her tomb,”
Hori said, plopping down beside the dog and rubbing the top of its head vigorously with a knuckle. A low growl warned against such rough treatment and the youth snatched his hand away.
“At that time, the valley was a lonely and empty place.
They had it to themselves much of the time.” Amonked ate a fish, washed it down with wine. “Thinking Neferu’s tomb a good omen, pointing to further riches in the area around her husband’s temple, they dug and dug again. They found and rifled several tombs beneath the valley floor and in the surrounding hillsides, but none were royal. According to the men who questioned them, Humay bragged of walking into and out of the sepulchers in the light of day with no one the wiser.”
“Suddenly, Senenmut descended upon the valley,” Bak said, breaking into a smile. “He claimed it for Maatkare Hatshepsut and she announced her plan to build her memorial temple there. Surveys were taken, foundation deposits laid.
Huts were built and men were not only raising a temple during the day, but were dwelling there at night.”
Amonked chuckled. “By that time they’d begun to use the honey jars to smuggle the jewelry more safely out of Kemet.
And they’d learned to hold back pieces, thereby increasing the value by keeping the supply lower than the demand.”
Eyeing the burned shed at the end of the paddock, Bak thoroughly enjoyed the thought of Menna, Pairi, and Humay standing on the rim of the cliff, looking down upon workmen swarming over the site like ants on an anthill. “Can you imagine how they felt, realizing they’d built up a demand for the stolen jewelry but lost their best source? They must’ve been furious.”
He popped a fish into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “To make matters worse as far as they were concerned, Menna found a document that mentioned the tombs of six Royal Ornaments, valued women of the harem, located somewhere in the temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. Tombs that if found intact would contain priceless items of jewelry. He and his cousins itched to seek them out, to lay hands on their contents, but they had no reason to visit the valley, no excuse to walk the pavement of the ruined temple.”
“Once again a whimsical god intervened,” Amonked said.
“The lord Set, I’ll wager.”
Bak’s good humor faded. “About three years ago Menna learned that the officer in charge of the cemetery guards was to be replaced. As with the chief archivist, he befriended the officer who would make the appointment. He was given the task.”
“Is that when they came up with the idea of the malign 282
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spirit?” Kasaya asked, dropping down beside Hori. His hands gave off the tangy smell of the poultice.
“Soon after, yes.” Bak took a couple more fish from the bowl, ate them, and took a sip of wine to wash away the salty taste. “If they were to find those tombs, they had to keep the workmen away from the old temple. They could do nothing during the daylight hours, but during the dangerous hours of night, when vicious animals are known to prowl the land and the shades of the dead return. . Well, what better way than to frighten them?”
“The malign spirit was a brilliant idea,” Ptahhotep said.
“Utterly heartless, but brilliant.”
“You know the rest,” Bak said. “The accidents, the injuries, the deaths. We’ve no way of knowing which of the three did the most damage to man and temple, but Humay admitted they all pretended to be the malign spirit and they all brought about the accidents. He verified my guess that Imen played a lesser role, more a watchman than a partici-pant. Certainly Menna stood at the head, thinking, planning, but all were equally to blame.”
“Did Menna rob the tomb the night I was supposed to be guarding it,” Kasaya asked, “or could he have taken the bracelets at some other time?”
“We’ll never know,” Bak said with a shrug. “He was alone in the sepulcher for a short time after Kaemwaset climbed out and before the masons went down to wall off the burial chamber. He could’ve taken them then, with no one the wiser.”
“What of Montu?” Hori asked, waving one of the small fish before Tracker’s indifferent nose.
“Humay threw the broken jar into the trash dump at Djeser Djeseru, thinking it would vanish forever. I assume Montu found it among the shards Ani gathered for him. He probably recognized the sketch of the bee-the fishermen’s farm was not far from his wife’s estate-and thought to catch them pretending to be the malign spirit. Instead, Menna caught him lurking about and slew him.”
Ptahhotep flung a bitter look toward the burned structure at the end of the paddock. “Was Menna the man who fired the shed with you and the horses inside?”
“I can’t speak with certainty about the fire, but I know for a fact that he was the one who set off the rock slide above the northern retaining wall.” Bak untied the knot holding a square of linen to his belt, spread the corners wide, and held it out so all could see. Glittering in the failing light were dozens of beads and amulets, their colors hard to guess with no sun to give them life. With a finger, he separated two from the rest, both tiny malachite images of the Lates fish.
“His broad collar broke while we fought. I picked these up after his death.”
“Was he on board the fishing boat when his cousins ran down my skiff? When they tried to slay us?”
“He wasn’t. It was Pairi’s idea, but he and Humay bun-gled it.” Bak recalled that night and scowled. “I suspect I was the target, not you. You were just unfortunate enough to be in the skiff with me.”
A long silence ensued, broken by Ptahhotep. “What of the valuables they unearthed through the years? Were any pieces found?”
Bak reknotted the cloth to preserve the contents and laid it aside. “Maiherperi sent men to search the fishermen’s farm while we awaited Menna at Djeser Djeseru. They found twenty-three pieces, a few from the tomb of Neferu, the rest from tombs of the nobility. All waiting to be smuggled out of Kemet.”
“Beautiful objects,” Amonked said. “Superb examples of craftsmanship. A credit to our ancestors’ good taste.”
“You’ll never guess where they hid them.” Hori, smiling broadly, his voice bubbling with excitement, was far too eager to answer his own question to await a guess. “In an old, empty beehive set among the occupied hives.”
A large moth flew into the flame of a torch planted in the earth far enough away from the portico to keep flying insects 284
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at a distance. A quick flare and a soft sputter signaled the creature’s demise. Bak heard the gentle plop of hooves in the paddock, while a jackal’s howl farther afield roused a dozen or more dogs scattered among the surrounding farms, setting them to barking. Tracker remained mute, though his ears took note of who was who among the canine neighbors.
A small fire burned beneath the sycamore, and the soft voices of the men awaiting Amonked carried through the night. The smell of the food they had shared, fish and scorched onions, hung in the air, reminding Bak of the burned shed and the need to rebuild it. The workmen at Djeser Djeseru had volunteered their labor, offering with an eagerness that was touching to make mudbricks and build a proper structure for the man who had risked his life to save theirs.
Hori dropped the small bones of a braised pigeon into a bowl and licked the juice from his fingers. “Now that we’ve found the princess’s tombs. .”
“They were Royal Ornaments,” Bak reminded him with a smile.
The scribe ignored the correction. “Will they be opened so the priests can inspect their contents? Will we be able to see what they contain?”
“Maybe they’re empty,” Kasaya said. “Maybe they were long ago broken into and their contents rifled.”
Amonked reached for another bird. “They’re safe, thoroughly covered by the rock slide, and I see no reason to dig them out. I’ll recommend to my cousin that they remain as they are.”
Bak and his father stood beneath the portico, watching Amonked and his porters walk along the moonlit path beyond the paddock. Hori and Kasaya, walking with them, would leave them at the river’s edge to walk on to their parents’ homes. As they faded into the darkness, Bak pulled the torch from the ground, laid it down, and flung dirt on the dwindling flame. He was very tired and longed for his sleeping pallet. And he was well satisfied. He had accomplished his task and was free to play. His horses needed exercise. His father’s skiff beckoned. Even helping the men rebuild the shed would be enjoyable.
Ptahhotep, gathering together dishes and drinking bowls, said, “No word was spoken of Senenmut, my son. Did he say anything to you? Did he congratulate you?”
Bak laughed. “He left Djeser Djeseru the moment Menna’s body fell. By the time I arrived at the temple, he was no doubt at the river, boarding a boat to cross to Waset.”
“The swine!”
“Father!” Bak took his parent by the shoulders, smiled. “I had reward enough when I saw the faces of the workmen, when they spoke of the relief they felt, their release from fear.”
“Surely Amonked will tell our sovereign that you’ve earned the gold of honor.”
Bak did not reply. Deep in his heart he knew he would never receive a golden fly as long as Maatkare Hatshepsut sat on the throne.