by Lauren Haney
Place of Darkness
( Lieutenant Bak - 5 )
Lauren Haney
Lauren Haney
Place of Darkness
Chapter One
“You’ve no need to inspect my vessel, Lieutenant.” The short, stout ship’s captain scratched the thick black hair on his chest in a show of indifference. “You know how careful I am with what I take on board.”
Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police at the fortress of Buhen, laid an arm across the man’s sweat-damp shoulders. His voice was a bit too genial, as was his smile. “It’s not you I worry about, Amonemhet. It’s the traders you bring south and the goods they bring with them.”
“I provide nothing but transportation,” the captain said, trying with meager success to conceal his worry beneath a veneer of self-righteousness. “I’m not responsible for the kind of products my passengers choose to export from Kemet, or for the quality of their merchandise.”
“Then you’ve no reason to object to an inspection.”
Bak glanced at his Medjay sergeant, Imsiba, who stood a few paces away with a half-dozen Medjay policemen and the elderly scribe who would document their findings. The swells from a passing ship lapped at the long stone quay beneath their feet and rocked the squat, broad-beamed cargo vessel moored alongside.
Captain Amonemhet slipped out of Bak’s embrace as if unable to tolerate such an intimate display of friendship. His manner turned hostile. “If you wish to waste your time, Lieutenant, feel free to do so. When my passengers complain of damaged goods, I’ll refer them to your commandant.”
Grinning to show how unconcerned he was, Bak stretched out his arm, his open hand inviting the captain to precede him and the Medjays up the gangplank. The ship had been moored less than an hour earlier beside the central of three quays that formed the harbor of Buhen. The vessel was un-painted, its deck darkened by time and dirt and spilled oils.
It smelled of stagnant water, probably seepage through the hull. The sail, furled against the lower yard in a slipshod manner, was yellowed with age and dappled with lighter patches. Mounds of cargo were lashed down the length of the deck, allowing barely enough space for the ragtag crew to use the oars and work the sail.
Bak fell back to talk with Imsiba, who had allowed their men to go on ahead. Where the officer was slightly above medium height, broad in chest and shoulders, the sergeant was tall and muscular, a sleek dark leopard in human form.
Both had short-cropped dark hair. Both wore thigh-length white kilts damp from perspiration and a minimum of jewelry, a single bronze chain around each man’s neck from which hung a half-dozen colorful stone amulets. Both looked at the world with sharp, intelligent eyes.
“Amonemhet takes care to keep his fingers clean, my friend, as you well know. He fears losing his ship by confiscation.” Imsiba gave Bak a sharp look. “What are you really after?”
Bak laughed at the Medjay’s acumen. “The trader Nenwaf.”
“Nenwaf? The wisp of a man standing in front of the deckhouse?”
“Each time he passes through Buhen, I feel he’s laughing at us. As if he’s gotten away with something. Let’s find out this time what it is.”
Bak stood on the prow of the ship, watching his men move slowly down the deck from one trader’s merchandise to the next, inspecting the mounds of goods destined for the land of Kush. Sweat poured from his body; his thirst was un-quenchable. He wished he had planned a shorter, quicker inspection.
The day was hot, the air still. The sky was colorless, bleached by a sun that offered no mercy. The river was a leaden sheet, reflecting birds of passage and the golden orb of Re. A smell of decaying fish wafted up from a muddy backwater. Sails hung limp on a scattered fleet of fishing boats. The words of an age-old river song drifted across the water from an approaching traveling ship, sung by oarsmen forced to take up their long paddles when the prevailing northerly breeze failed. Blue and white banners drooping from masthead and yards were those of the garrison commandant, who was returning from Ma’am, where he had responded to a summons from the viceroy. Bak wondered fleetingly how the journey had gone.
The Medjays had begun at the stern and worked their way forward to the deckhouse. Thus far their inspection had revealed few transgressions and no surprises. A large basket of trade quality beads brought south from Mennufer had been found to contain four military issue bronze daggers, special gifts for special friends, the portly trader had said, never mind that trade in army equipment was forbidden. Over a hundred brilliant blue faience amulets pilfered from the workshop of the mansion of the lord Ptah near Mennufer had been found among several rolls of heavy export linen. A randomly chosen wine vat had revealed that a bearded trader from the land of Retenu had brought mediocre wine from his homeland at the eastern end of the Great Green Sea and labeled it as a prime vintage from a northern vineyard in Kemet.
Imsiba and his men rounded the deckhouse. Nenwaf greeted them effusively and invited them with open arms to inspect his merchandise. Bak sauntered back to join them, getting a broad smile and the same smug look that had initially attracted his notice a year or more ago. The trader had something to hide, he was convinced.
In less than a half hour the Medjays had examined all Nenwaf possessed. They had found every object listed on his travel pass-and nothing more. Absolutely nothing. The trader’s smile grew more expansive, his demeanor much like a cat licking the taste of sparrow from its whiskers. Bak’s conviction strengthened. The man was smuggling. But what? And how?
Standing beside Imsiba, gently tapping his baton of office against his leg, Bak studied the objects spread out on the deck before them: rolls of linen; jars of wine, beer, honey, and oil; baskets of beads and cheap jewelry; coarse pottery ware; crudely made faience cosmetic pots; and toilet articles such as combs, mirrors, tweezers, and razors. Much the same merchandise as the other traders were taking to Kush.
No, he erred. There was a difference.
Few traders dealt in beer or honey, and none aboard this vessel but Nenwaf. Beer was as easy to make in the land of Kush as in Kemet, and the large pottery jars in which it was stored were ungainly to handle and easily broken during transit. Bees were raised in far greater numbers in Kemet than Kush, but honey could sometimes kill, the reason unknown. Since an unfortunate incident a few months earlier where several small children had died, many traders feared deadly retribution in a remote and alien land.
Kneeling beside a basket filled with reddish jars of honey, he lifted two from among the rest. Each was ovoid in shape, fairly wide-mouthed, and as tall as his hand was long. Each was plugged with dried mud and carried the seal of. . He did not recognize the seal but guessed it had been impressed by the beekeeper. He glanced at Nenwaf, saw an odd closed expression on his face.
“Why do you take beer to Kush?” he asked. “Is that not like taking horses to the land of Hatti?” All the world knew that the strongest and finest horses came from the distant northerly kingdom.
“The beer I trade is lighter and finer than most, with fewer solids in the bottom of the vat.” Nenwaf came forward, hovered. “I trade with a minor king who demands the best.”
Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Bak replaced the two jars and picked up two others. Nenwaf’s hasty smile, no longer so smug, told him the man was worried, but whatever was amiss evaded him. “Is the honey unusual as well?”
“The bees drink the nectar of fine clover and thyme. The king-the one who enjoys a good brew-prefers their bounty over that of other bees.”
Bak examined the two jars, found the same plugs and seals as before, put them back in the basket. “You’ve no fear the honey will make him and his loved ones ail and die?” he asked, reaching for two more jars.
Receiving no answer, he glanced at Nenwaf. Noticing Bak’s probing look, the trader formed another smile a shade too unconcerned, shrugged. “If he wants the best, he must take the risk.”
An argument as thin and wispy as the man who had mouthed it. Doubly alert, Bak studied the pair of jars. Both were plugged and sealed like those he had seen before. One, unlike the rest, had a rough drawing around its neck of a necklace with a pendant bee. A sketch on a jar was not unknown, neither was it common.
He looked closer at the image. His eye was drawn to a flattened streak of mud down the side of the container. Mud deposited by chance when the jar was plugged and partially wiped away? he wondered. Or mud deliberately plastered on the jar to cover a crack? A device to gain full value when full value might not be warranted. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and scratched the streak. Dried mud flaked away, revealing a long and very fine irregular crack.
Nenwaf’s face looked skeletal, his smile stretched tight.
Bak tamped down his elation and, with a grave look at Imsiba, stood up. “We’d best keep this jar, Sergeant, and examine the rest more thoroughly. Honey, beer, the lot. Only the lord Amon knows what Nenwaf thinks to pass off to his customers.”
One of the Medjays, a hulking young man named Kasaya, stepped forward to loom over Nenwaf. His countenance was dark and threatening. “Perhaps the evil demon that carries death has entered the honey through that crack.”
Nenwaf took a quick step back, bumping against the deckhouse. “The jar is mine, Lieutenant. One I mean to keep for my own use. You can’t take it from me.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll give you its value and more.”
“More?” Bak asked, curious as to exactly how valuable the jar was to the trader.
“Five times more. Enough to share with all these Medjays.”
Bak exchanged an enigmatic look with Imsiba, a look that could have meant anything.
The trader noticed. “All right. Ten times more. Twenty!”
Kasaya looked startled. Another Medjay whistled.
Bak eyed Nenwaf, his expression speculative. “Kasaya, go forward to the crew’s hearth and bring back a bowl. I wish to see for myself honey of such immense value.”
Nenwaf leaped forward, reaching for the jar. Bak jerked it away. Imsiba grabbed the trader by the upper arm and flung him at two Medjays, who caught him between them and held him tight. As Kasaya walked away, the trader pleaded for release, swore his offer had been misunderstood. The more he babbled, the more convinced Bak was that whatever the jar contained would be well worth the long, painstaking inspection.
Kasaya returned, silencing Nenwaf. The Medjays and scribe came close so they, too, could see what was worth so large a bribe.
Bak broke away the plug, drawing a moan from deep within the trader’s breast, and tipped the jar over the grayish bowl Kasaya held out to him. Imsiba and the men stood silent, rapt. A large glob of thick golden honey dropped from the jar’s mouth. For a long moment the viscous liquid ceased to flow. Then the honey again burst free and a solid object dripping with liquid gold dropped into the puddle at the bottom of the bowl. Immediately another fell and another and another, solid drops of gold and color falling with the slowly pouring liquid. After the sixth object dropped from the jar, the flow continued unabated, revealing nothing further entombed within.
Bak held out the bowl so all could get a better look. Soft murmurs of awe and wonder burst forth. Two bracelets and four rings lay in the small golden pool. Jewelry of an elaborate design made of gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and turquoise. He drew his dagger, fished a bracelet from the thick, sticky substance, and held it, dripping, above the bowl.
A circlet of gold and precious stones hung from the pointed tip of the blade.
Nenwaf whimpered. And no wonder.
Bak, the sole man among them who could read, pointed to an oval symbol of protection, which traditionally surrounded the names of the kings of Kemet, on back of the pieces. “ ‘Nebhepetre Montuhotep,’ ” he read aloud.
“I didn’t know what the jar held!” Nenwaf sobbed. “I was told only that it was valuable. That I’d lose my life if I didn’t deliver it unopened and intact.”
His words were lost among the indignant and angry growls of the group. Nebhepetre Montuhotep had ruled the land of Kemet many generations ago, long before Buhen was built. He was one of the first rulers to come from Waset, one of the first to be buried there. The jewelry was that of a woman. The name within the oval indicated that she had been close to the king. A royal consort or a princess.
The jewelry had to have been taken from an ancient tomb.
The tomb of a woman of royal blood rifled and desecrated.
“You’re to be commended, my friend.” Imsiba clapped Bak hard on the back. “If you hadn’t recognized Nenwaf for what he is, he’d have carried on his smuggling for many years to come.”
“The infantry sergeant in Waset who stole the weapons we found in the beer jars has much to account for. As for the 8
Lauren Haney
jewelry. .” Bak glanced at the bowl he carried. “We’ve snared Nenwaf, but he’s a mere tool. I fear the one who robbed the tomb will seek a new way of exchanging its riches for a wealth he can use without raising the suspicion of others.”
“Did you believe Nenwaf when he said he didn’t know what was in the jar? That a man he barely knew asked him to pass it on to another man in Kerma?”
Bak looked up the quay at the prisoner, shackled between two Medjays who were hustling him into the deeply shadowed passage through the massive twin-towered gate of the fortress. Stark white towered walls framed the centrally located portal and a similar opening to the north, while a grand pylon gate rose to the south behind which stood the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen, the local manifestation of the falcon god. From these gates the three quays reached into the river. At the base of the fortified wall, two terraces formed broad steps along the water’s edge. Other than a sentry standing in a sliver of shade near each gate, not a creature stirred. Even the various ships’ crews had sought shelter from the heat. As had the sentry atop the wall, Bak suspected, for he could see no pacing figure on the battlements, as he should have.
“He certainly knew the jar contained something of value.”
Imsiba shook his head regretfully. “I fear we must apply the stick.”
“We’ve no choice.” Bak had slight faith in any truth gained by a beating, but for a deed so vile, not merely an af-front to the lady Maat, goddess of right and order, but the desecration of an ancient tomb, the cudgel must be used.
The commandant, the viceroy of Wawat, and the vizier himself would all demand firm questioning.
“Lieutenant Bak!” Hori, the chubby young police scribe, burst through the gate and raced down the quay. A large, floppy-eared white dog sped after him, nipping playfully at his heels and yapping.
“What now, I wonder?” Imsiba murmured.
Bak bestowed upon his friend a disgruntled frown. “We’ll have no swim this afternoon, I’ll wager.”
“Sir!” Skidding to a halt, the youth wiped the sweat from brow and upper lip. “Commandant Thuty wishes to see you, sir. Right away. In his private reception room. You and Imsiba.”
“Both of us?” To request the sergeant’s presence was highly unusual. “Do you know what he wants?”
“No, sir.” Hori grabbed the dog, an animal he had adopted as a puppy, by the scruff of the neck to quiet it. “It must be important, though. He stopped by the guardhouse soon after his ship came in from Ma’am. Before he went on to the residence.”
The commandant’s residence was the heart of the garrison, serving both as military headquarters and as a dwelling for Thuty and his family.
Hori gave the bowl Bak held a brief, distracted glance.
“You’re to stop by the garrison for Troop Captain Nebwa.
He wants to see all three of you at once.”
Bak and Imsiba exchanged worried looks. Whatever the comm
andant had to say, it must be serious indeed.
Bak, Imsiba, and Nebwa found Commandant Thuty
seated in his armchair in his private reception room, reading a scroll Bak recognized as the garrison daybook for the current week. Thuty raised his eyes from the document and beckoned them inside. Taking care where they walked lest they step on a toy or a discarded scroll or one of twenty or more arrows littering the floor, they crossed the room to stand before him. He had to have noticed the bowl in Bak’s hand, but he made no comment. Instead, he turned around and snapped out an order to a boy of five or so years who was trying to stuff arrows into a quiver. If any of the missiles survived the child’s rough treatment, the gods would surely have performed a miracle.
Watching the boy scurry away, Thuty shook his head in dismay. “Why did the lord Amon bless me with so many children?”
The question, oft-repeated, required no answer.
The commandant laid the scroll on a low table beside his chair and wove his fingers together across his stomach.
“Clean the playthings off those stools and sit down.” He nodded toward several low seats scattered around the room, providing transitory surfaces for dolls, pull toys, balls, and a child’s board game. “I’ve a most important item to discuss.”
Bak sat between Nebwa and the big Medjay. Feeling somewhat ridiculous with a bowl on his lap, he placed the honey and its precious cargo on the floor by his feet. The room was hot; a slight breeze drifting through the courtyard door had not the power to dry the thin film of sweat coating his face and body. A strong scent of braised catfish and onions wafted through the air, reminding him that he and Imsiba had missed their midday meal.
Thuty stared at the bowl, obviously curious, but before Bak could explain, his eyes darted away, his thoughts leaping to the purpose of his summons. “I’ve been asked to take command of the garrison at Mennufer. I like Buhen better than any other place I’ve been, but I feel I must move on to the more prestigious post. I’ve accepted the task.”