Place of Darkness lb-5

by Lauren Haney

  To either side of the terrace, men toiled at the retaining walls, those to the north cutting away the slope, those to the south shaping and placing the stone blocks. A ragged line of youths carried dirt and debris by the basketful from the high side of the terrace to the low. Other boys walked among the men with donkeys, carrying skins of water. Well over a hundred men and boys whistling, laughing, calling out to each other, or talking among themselves. None afraid of malign spirits, at least in the light of day.

  A nearly naked man, a workman if the dust and sweat covering his body told true, raced up the rubble ramp down which materials were moved from the terrace to the men building the southern retaining wall. He sped through the clutter of stones, drawing every eye, silencing the laughter and talk. Clearly agitated, he stopped among the columns below. “Pashed! Sir! I must speak with you, sir. Right away!”

  The architect looked at the workman and at Amonked, his face a picture of indecision. Amonked was an important man, while the workman’s message might well be as urgent as he appeared to believe it was.

  “Go to him,” Amonked said. “We’ll await you here.”

  Pashed hurried away with the workman, both soon to vanish behind the southern retaining wall.

  “Another accident?” Bak asked.

  “I pray not.”

  They strode to the southern end of the unfinished colonnade and tried to see where Pashed had gone. Thanks to the vagaries of construction, they could look down upon a new shrine to the lady Hathor and the four men laying foundation stones, but the incomplete segment of wall that would close off the end of the colonnade blocked their view of the area along the base of the retaining wall. They saw a dozen or so workmen standing about, looking toward the wall and talking among themselves, but Pashed was nowhere to be seen.

  With Amonked unwilling to intrude unless summoned, Bak resigned himself to waiting.

  Standing on the edge of the terrace, he looked across the workmen’s huts to the ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. It was as he remembered it, yet vastly different. The mound of rubble in the center was lower, the remaining columns had decreased in number and fewer were standing, none to their original height. Two men scrambled among the ruins, and even from a distance he could see they were searching for stone that could be recut and reused. A small crew of workmen levered the blocks the pair selected onto wooden rockers, which they used to raise the stones onto sledges. These were towed by another team of men from the old temple to the new.

  Amonked pointed toward the center of the ruin. “You see the mound of stones that might once have been a pyramid-

  or whatever it was? The three rows of fallen and broken columns that once formed a covered walkway around the mound? The wall enclosing those columns?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That, my young friend, is exactly the plan Senenmut started with. Same size, same shape, but set well forward of the older temple. Clearly his inspiration was not unique.”

  Bak had the distinct impression that Amonked did not share his cousin’s affection for Senenmut.

  “Was the building ever started?”

  “Over a hundred men toiled here for several months.

  When they went home to harvest their crops, he altered his plan. I’m not sure why. My cousin came out here, and perhaps she suggested something more worthy, more unique.”

  “Sir!” The same workman who had come for Pashed stood among the columns below. “Pashed wishes you to come right away, sir. You and Lieutenant Bak. The matter is urgent, he said, most urgent.”

  “Bata found a body in an ancient tomb.” Pashed flung a hasty look at a reed-thin workman who was shaking so badly another man had to hold a beer jar to his lips. The architect was standing in front of a rough hole in the sand that opened near the end of the incomplete retaining wall. He looked gray around the mouth, beleaguered. “A man struck down from behind.”

  Bak knew no man long dead and buried would rouse such strong reactions. “The body is fresh?”

  “So it looked to me.”

  “Who is he?” Amonked demanded.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t draw close. Nor did Bata, so he says.”

  Bak thanked the lord Amon. With luck he might find some sign of the slayer. Or maybe he should thank the so-called malign spirit for holding back all who would otherwise have trampled over the scene.

  “I’ll need a good, strong light,” he said, eyeing the dark opening.

  The short, stout foreman responsible for building the wall, Seked by name, sent a workman off to get a fresh torch. The foreman’s grim expression and a tendency to rub the ugly scar running across his forehead betrayed his outward calm as a sham.

  Bak glanced at the onlookers standing well back in a loose half circle: Bata’s fellow workmen, a dozen or more sweat-stained men, whose faces registered equal measures of excitement and alarm. Coming at a fast pace across the sand were the men he had seen removing stones from the ancient temple. Others were gathering along the top of the retaining wall. By end of day, every man at Djeser Djeseru would have told the tale over and over again, each time embellishing it. Bak took care to conceal his annoyance; if he was to resolve the problem of the malign spirit, he would need their goodwill.

  He walked close to the hole into which he must go and looked into the black void. Located at the edge of the mound of dirt and debris that formed the terrace, it was directly in the path of the retaining wall. The sand around it was hard-packed. He guessed the tomb had been open for some time and the men had concluded they had nothing to fear from whatever was inside.

  “Why did Bata enter the tomb?” he asked.

  Seked stepped forward. “We needed to go on with the retaining wall, sir. We thought to fill the shaft today so we could build over it.”

  “I gave them permission,” Pashed said. “The tomb was never completed or used, so we had no need to summon a priest to offer prayers.”

  The foreman flung a bleak look at the dark opening. “I thought it best that we send a man down before we filled it. I feared some lazy workman might’ve slipped inside to take a nap.”

  Bak nodded. He, too, would have wanted to be sure no man was trapped below. “Someone must go down with me,”

  he said, giving Pashed a pointed look, “one who knows by sight most of the men who toil within this valley.”

  Pashed nodded slowly, reluctantly.

  The workman hurried back with a flaming torch. Bak took the light and strode to the tomb. No hesitation for him. No time to let grow within his heart the tiny grain of apprehension he felt. No time to give the onlookers the satisfaction of thinking he might share their superstitious fears.

  Holding the light before him, he picked his way down a steep flight of irregular steps, keeping his head low so he would not bump the rough-cut ceiling. He could hear Pashed’s heavy breathing behind him. The tunnel at the bottom, its roof so low he had to hunch down, leveled out and turned gradually to the right. It was less than two paces wide, the air close and hot. He held the flame near the floor, looking at the footprints in the thin layer of fine sand that covered the stone. Two sets of prints coming and going, one shod, the other bare, those of Pashed and Bata, he felt sure.

  If any other prints had been left, they had unwittingly destroyed them. At times, he glimpsed short straight indenta-tions near the walls. At first they puzzled him but then he realized they were the remains of tracks left by the wooden runners of a sledge.

  At least two dozen paces beyond the steps, he saw the body, a man lying on his side, facing the rough wall that marked the far end of the shaft. The back of the head was matted and bloody, dark and glistening in the torchlight. The smell of death, though not strong, was pervasive. Bata’s prints and those of Pashed ended where Bak stood, where they had glimpsed the dead man and fled.

  He walked slowly forward, examining the floor. Except for one indentation no longer than his hand left by the sledge, the sand was smooth and unmarked. The slayer had brushed away
his tracks. Kneeling beside the body, he looked back. Pashed hovered several paces away, sweat streaming down his face. The shaft was hot, but not that hot.

  The architect was afraid.

  Turning back to the dead man, Bak’s eyes fell on the head, the crown crushed and broken, a mass of dried blood and flesh crawling with flies. The body was limp, the pallid flesh beginning to swell. The man had been dead for some time, or had he? In the warmth of the tomb the process of decay would be faster. He could have been slain as recently as the night before.

  “Who is he?” Pashed whispered.

  Sucking in his breath, Bak laid his hands on the lifeless form and rolled the dead man onto his back. Flies rose in a cloud. Bak swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on the man’s appearance. He was of medium height and of middle years, with fading good looks and muscles going to fat. He wore the long kilt of a scribe and elaborate, probably costly, multicolored bead jewelry.

  “Come forward, Pashed. You must tell me his name.” After a long silence, he heard the whisper of sandals approaching across the sand.

  The architect bent over, stared. “May the gods be blessed.

  It’s Montu.”

  What a strange thing to say, Bak thought. “Are you sure?”

  “We’ve toiled together here at Djeser Djeseru for over five years. I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Montu.” Amonked sighed. “I can’t say I liked the man, but to die like that. . An abomination.”

  Bak eyed the half circle of men standing well back from the mouth of the tomb. From the size of the crowd, he guessed every man at Djeser Djeseru had abandoned his task to come and see for himself what had happened. Most men spoke together in hushed voices, speculating about the dead man and his manner of death. A few at the front of the circle were silent, trying to hear what the police officer and the Storekeeper of Amon were saying.

  “Are you certain he didn’t fall and strike his head on a projecting stone?” Amonked asked, not for the first time.

  “He was murdered, sir, struck down from behind.”

  Amonked glanced at the onlookers. “I fear the men will see this as another in the series of accidents we’ve had. More serious, of course, but one among many. Are you sure. .?”

  “There was nothing in the tomb against which he could’ve fallen, sir. The floor was smooth, and the walls, though rough, had no protrusions so large they’d damage his head in such a way.” Bak could see that Amonked was unconvinced or, more likely, did not want to believe. “I found almost no blood under him and I saw the tracks of a sledge. Seked assured me he’s sent no sledge into that tomb. I’m convinced Montu was slain somewhere else and his body hauled from that place to here. Everyone watching the progress of the retaining wall knew the tomb would soon be closed forever.

  What better place to hide a murdered man?”

  The guard who had been summoned to escort the dead man to the house of death came halfway out of the mouth of the tomb. A hush fell over the crowd. He spoke a few words to Pashed, waiting at the top, then turned around and said something to the men in the shaft behind him. Message relayed, he climbed to the surface. Two workmen Pashed had pressed into service stumbled out of the tomb. They carried between them the litter on which they had tied Montu’s body. At Bak’s suggestion, they had taken a length of linen with them to cover the dead man, but still the flies swarmed around. Both bearers looked a bit green, and Bak knew exactly how they felt.

  Murmurs rose among the men looking on, prayers taking the place of speculation. Nodding at Bak and Amonked, the guard led the bearers toward the ring of onlookers and the ramp that would take them up to the terrace. Men scurried out of the way, breaking the circle apart. As the two workmen carried their grim burden past, the rest craned their heads, trying to see all there was to see, hoping to glean a bit more gossip.

  Amonked took Bak’s upper arm as if he needed support and they walked together through the break in the circle. Not until they reached the top of the ramp and were standing among several partially finished statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut did the shorter, stouter man release the younger, more fit of the pair.

  Amonked slumped down onto the twice-size, almost finished face of Maatkare Hatshepsut wrapped for eternity as the lord Osiris, which was lying on its back in the sand. “I thank the lord Amon, Lieutenant, that I had the good sense to enlist your help this morning. I can honestly report to my cousin and Senenmut that I have the matter well in hand.”

  “I pray I can live up to your expectations, sir.”

  “You will. I’m sure you will. I’ve every confidence in you.

  You’ll not only lay hands on the slayer, but you’ll find the source of the many accidents that have plagued Djeser Djeseru and set to rest these tales of a malign spirit.”

  The responsibility was a heavy one, and Bak offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that his shoulders were strong enough to bear it. Noting the carved features beneath Amonked’s buttocks, he added another, equally fervent prayer that the Storekeeper of Amon would keep his vow to stand between him and Maatkare Hatshepsut.

  Chapter Four

  “A murder!” Hori was not actually dancing up the causeway, but his step was almost as light and quick. “Much better than jewelry stolen from an old tomb. A far more serious matter.”

  The plump scribe glanced at the large, muscular Medjay walking by his side. “The gods have indeed blessed us, Kasaya.”

  The young Medjay’s eyes darted toward Bak. “It’s a good excuse to get away from my mother,” he said, apparently thinking the admission more prudent than Hori’s open enthusiasm.

  “I doubt Montu’s wife is taking his death so lightly,” Bak said.

  Hori flushed. “Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean. .” His voice tailed off, the lightness vanished from his stride.

  Kasaya had the good sense to let the matter rest.

  The trio strode up the causeway, keeping pace with their long shadows cast by the early morning sun. Each had brought along his tools of office: Bak carried his baton, Hori his scribal pallet and water pot, and Kasaya his spear and shield.

  The sun had tinted the cliff ahead a reddish brown, the colonnades of Djeser Djeseru a pale red-orange. The air was warm, barely stirred by a light breeze; the day might well grow unbearable. A smell of fish, onions, and burned oil lingered, drifting from the rough workmen’s huts built between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple. Several crows hopped around a garbage heap behind the interconnected buildings, squawking, picking clean discarded bones, squabbling over the other meager offerings they found.

  “You’re no longer boys,” Bak said. “You must learn to guard your tongues.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hori and Kasaya chorused.

  Shouts drew their attention to the quarry north of the causeway, a foreman yelling at men pulling a sledge laden with a single massive block of stone up a steep ramp from its depths. Bak eyed the huge, irregular hole. The thuds of mallets on chisels carried on the air, but he could not see the men toiling below. The bottom was too deep. Was this the quarry from which stone was taken for the temple? he wondered. Or was it of too poor a quality? Had it been used instead to level the causeway, filling the low spots, making the ascent smooth and gradual?

  “Most of the men who toil at our sovereign’s new temple are simple souls from the countryside. Whatever you say, they’ll take as fact. You must give them no reason for misunderstanding.”

  “What questions shall we ask?” Kasaya had accompanied Bak more than once on a quest for a slayer. Reality miti-gated his enthusiasm, but not entirely. He was too glad to be released from his parents’ dwelling.

  “Start first by showing interest in the men’s tasks,” he said. “No matter how high or low, they’re sure to enjoy speaking of their accomplishments. When you’re certain they’re well satisfied with themselves and with you, direct the conversation toward the many accidents, the malign spirit, the chief architect and craftsmen and foremen. After you’ve led them along the path o
f your choice, let their talk go where it will. You never know what they might reveal.”

  The trio walked across the sunny terrace, weaving a path through the rough and not so rough blocks of stone and the men who were completing the various architectural elements so they could be positioned within the temple. The sand felt hot beneath their feet and the men they passed reeked of sweat. Hori and Kasaya looked upon the scene wide-eyed and enthralled. The workmen looked furtively upon them, very much aware of who they were. Bak could almost feel their apprehension, their mistrust of the authority he and his men represented.

  He wished Imsiba were with him, or another, equally experienced man. He knew well Kasaya’s response to adversity, knew his faults and strengths, the way he thought, the way he fought. He had no doubt the Medjay would give his life for him if need be. Hori was another matter. He knew the youth only in the safety of the garrison, a young man wed to his scribal pallet, ever willing to do what had to be done, one whose heart was generous and whose good humor was neverending. A young man with no training in the arts of war, one whose physical courage was untried and unknown.

  With luck and the help of the gods, Hori’s bravery and stamina would not be tested while they set about snaring Montu’s slayer and discovering the reason for the many accidents.

  A workman told them they would find Pashed at the base of the southern retaining wall, and so they did. He stood with the foreman Seked near the mouth of the tomb in which Montu’s body had been found, watching a line of boys carrying baskets of sand and rubble to the hole, where a second chain of youths relayed them inside and sent out the emptied baskets for another load. Men were laying foundation stones to within a pace or so of the hole, anticipating the moment when the tomb shaft would be packed with earth and they could build over it. As Bak and his men approached, every eye turned their way. One boy stumbled, the youth behind him paused, the next in line bumped into him. Dirt rained from his basket.