by Lauren Haney
“So we’ve heard.”
Bak saw not a speck of sadness or regret. Nor did he see sorrow on the faces of the other two scribes. He was reminded of Pashed’s words upon seeing the body: “May the gods be blessed,” he had said. “Do you think his death related to the series of accidents?”
“If he was slain by another man. .” Ramose’s eyes leaped to Bak’s face, sudden concern clouding his features.
“Is there some question about the accidents? Does Amonked believe they were brought about not by carelessness and the whims of the gods, but were deliberate attempts to disrupt construction with injury and death?”
The older scribe looked up from a scroll onto which he was transferring notes from a pile of hand-size limestone flakes. “The workmen talk of a malign spirit.”
Bak gave him a sharp look. Could he, an educated man, truly believe such superstitious nonsense? Or was he jesting? “I seek Montu’s slayer in the company of men, not among the demons of darkness. And if I find the accidents to be something other than what they’ve all along appeared to be, I’ll look for a man, not a spirit.”
Ramose scowled at the old man. “This, sir, is
Amonemhab, father to my first wife, long deceased. He’s a good man, but ofttimes the bane of my existence.”
Looking disdainful, Amonemhab tossed the shard onto a pile of discarded flakes. “Could a man cause so many accidents? I think not. Too many occurred in the light of day with other men looking on.”
“Not all were so straightforward,” Ramose said.
A short burst of metallic clangs drew Bak’s eyes toward a patch of shade beneath a lean-to a dozen or so paces away.
Two metalsmiths, dripping sweat, toiled in the heat of a small pottery furnace, sharpening and repairing tools collected from the workmen. Ramose believed in keeping a close eye on the equipment for which he was responsible.
“With rumors of a malign spirit planting fear in men’s hearts, they might well stumble or fumble or tumble, bringing about any number of accidents.” Bak drank from his beer jar, taking care not to stir up the sediment that lay in the bottom. “I know for a fact that a malign spirit did not slay Montu.”
“He was not well liked,” Ramose admitted.
“I see no sadness among the three of you.”
“Montu was a swine!” the old man said with venom.
Ramose shot a warning look his way. “You must listen to Amonemhab with half an ear, Lieutenant. He’s become outspoken in his dotage and not always rational.”
“Humph!” the old man said, glaring.
“Grandfather knows of what he speaks,” the apprentice said. “No one liked Montu.”
“Ani. .” Ramose scowled disapproval.
With a fond smile, Amonemhab ruffled his grandson’s hair.
“If you seek his slayer among the men who toil at Djeser Djeseru, Lieutenant, you must look at every man here.”
Thinking of corruption, of stolen equipment and false records, Bak’s eyes settled on Ramose. “Was he a man who found fault with the work of others and threatened to lay bare their mistakes?”
The chief scribe was not a stupid man. He realized what Bak was getting at and his voice grew hard, taut. “He tried to find fault, yes, but when he sniffed around here, he found nothing wrong. We allow no man to get away with what isn’t his, nor do we take more than our share. We allow no theft of supplies and equipment, nor do we condone the distribution of too much or too little in return for the effort a man makes each day. The records we keep are as accurate as men can make them, the quantities checked and rechecked.”
“Then you won’t object if my scribe Hori looks over your accounts.”
“I do object.” Ramose’s attempt at civility came close to failing. “I object wholeheartedly, but can I prevent it? No.
Nor will I make the attempt.”
“Amonked’s scribes have found no fault.” The old man gave Bak a sour look. “Do you think that boy of yours has a sharper eye?”
“Montu was a disgusting man!” Ani’s hatred burned bright on his face. “If you’re to find his slayer, look at the man himself, not us.”
Ramose hissed like a snake, trying to silence him. Which alerted Bak that another truth lay close to the surface of their hearts. He set his beer jar on the sand by his feet, crossed his arms over his breast, and stared hard at the boy. “Why do you feel so strongly about him?”
Ani looked down at the scroll in his lap, mumbled,
“Everyone hated him. Not me alone. Everyone.”
“You know as well as I that no secrets remain hidden for long, especially in a place of work such as this.” Bak spoke to the father and not the son. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but you can be sure I’ll soon learn. If not from you, from someone else. A tale built upon by the teller’s imagination, which may or may not be in your favor.”
The boy looked one way and another, refusing to meet his A PLACE OF DARKNESS
63
father’s blame-filled eyes. Rather like a beetle caught in a deep bowl, scrabbling here and there and everywhere for a means of escape.
“All right,” Ramose said, his voice harsh, angry. “Montu made advances to my new wife. She’s young and I like to think her beautiful. That imbecile. .” He glared at his son, who looked mortified. “. . was born of my first wife, who died bearing me a daughter some years ago.”
“Montu went to our house while we toiled here.” The old man spat out the words; that he shared Ramose’s anger was plain. “He wanted the woman, said if she didn’t comply he’d send the three of us to the distant frontier. With no one in Waset to protect her, she’d have to submit.”
The boy’s gloom vanished in an unexpected grin. “He didn’t know her very well, did he, grandfather?”
A hint of a smile flickered through the old man’s anger.
“He grabbed her, tried to force her. She screamed for a servant, who came running. A mere child, but one of infinite courage. She hit him on the head with a stool, forcing him to release Ramose’s wife.”
“Paralyzed with fear at what she’d done, the servant backed off.” Ramose’s chin came up and his breast swelled with pride. “Fearing he’d not give up, my wife threw a hot brazier, which shattered on his back, throwing forth the smoldering fuel and burning him.”
“A well-deserved reward,” Bak said, “but I’m surprised he didn’t retaliate by sending you away.”
“Blackmail can go both ways.” Ramose bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “He thought because he was of exalted status, he could do as he wished. That same pride in his lofty position made him loath to be made to look the fool.”
Chapter Five
“We talked with twelve men and not one among them doubts that a malign spirit walks within this valley.” Hori laid his writing implements on the lap of a rough-finished white limestone seated statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut and bent to scratch an ankle. “They speak with certainty, but when pressed for details, they say, ‘Oh, Ahmose told me. . ’
or ‘Montu said. . ’ or ‘Sobekhotep swears he saw. . ’ ”
“You spoke with whom?” Bak asked.
“The craftsmen toiling in the sanctuary and memorial chapels. We had no time to speak with anyone else.”
Rubbing the sweat from his face, Bak dropped onto a large irregular block of sandstone lying on the terrace between the completed portion of the southern retaining wall and the ramp that led downward. He could hear the men below singing an age-old workmen’s song, its words repetitive, as monotonous as their task of relaying the final baskets of fill into the tomb where Montu had been slain.
“Interesting,” he said. “I saw no fear among them yesterday, yet the sanctuary and chapels are places of relative soli-tude. Places where a malign spirit might seek them out.”
Kasaya sat down on the base of the white statue and leaned back against his sovereign’s stone legs. “Perhaps they feel the lord Amon’s presence.”
“It’s the heart of the temple, yes,”
Hori scoffed, “but it’s not been sanctified.”
The Medjay’s expression remained earnest, untroubled by the scribe’s teasing. “The spirit’s only been seen at night, and seldom up there.”
“Most of the accidents have taken place in the light of day,” Bak pointed out, “while the men were toiling at their various tasks.”
“No artists have been slain, sir.” Hori rested a hip against a limestone thigh. “One man was hurt some months ago. A scaffold collapsed when he was outlining the images high on the face of a wall. He was thrown to the floor and his arm was broken. If the malign spirit loosened the rope that bound the poles, it did so at night.”
“They now look more closely at their scaffolds,” Kasaya said.
“And each morning,” Hori added, “they bend a knee in what’s left of the temple of our sovereign’s worthy ancestors, Djeserkare Amonhotep and his revered mother Ahmose Nefertari.”
The youth pointed east toward the remains of mudbrick walls that were gradually being consumed as the terrace was extended. One outer wall rose to shoulder height, but the remaining walls were lower, their bricks carried away to be used elsewhere in construction ramps and as fill. What little remained of the lower courses and foundation was covered over as the terrace was lengthened.
Silently cursing the superstitions that made men so illogi-cal, Bak eyed the workmen’s huts clumped together like a small, impoverished village on the broad strip of sand between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. The chief scribe Ramose dwelt there much of the time, though he had talked of a more comfortable home in a village at the edge of the river valley.
“Where’s this malign spirit most often seen?” he asked.
“Sometimes over there.” Hori pointed toward the ruined temple beyond the huts. “Sometimes in the old tombs on the slopes overlooking this valley.” He waved his hand in the general direction of distant colonnades visible on the hillsides. “Sometimes on this terrace among the unfinished statues and architectural elements.”
Kasaya’s eyes darted around the immediate vicinity. He tried to appear casual, tried hard not to betray his fear that the malign spirit might be hidden among the surrounding blocks of stone.
“Almost everywhere, you’re saying.”
“It’s never gone near the workmen’s huts, so they say.”
“Amazing,” Bak said, not at all amazed.
He looked upward, but could see nothing of the heart of the temple. The upper colonnade that would serve as its facade was a long way from being finished, as was the wall behind it, but the terrace on which he stood was too low to allow him to see inside. The workmen’s huts in the hollow between the two temples were considerably lower. “Where are the night guards when the malign spirit shows itself?
Have they ever seen it?”
“We’ll talk with them next, sir,” the scribe said.
“Ask them.” Bak scowled. “Also, you must find out what they do when they see it. Do they run away? Or have they tried to catch it?” He suspected they turned their backs, preferring to have seen nothing rather than risk the gods alone knew what in a vain attempt to catch a wraith.
“Catch it, sir?” Kasaya asked, looking incredulous.
“If they reported to me, they’d at least try. They’d better.”
Bak left no doubt how he felt about men who failed to do their duty. To Hori, he asked, “What appearance does this spirit take?”
“It’s never seen in the daylight, as you said yourself, sir.
At night it’s either a dark and distant shadow in the moonlight or a spot of light flitting among the stones.”
Bak looked thoughtfully at the cluster of workmen’s huts.
Unpainted mudbrick. Light roofs of reed, palm frond, and mud construction. A lean-to added here and there. “The craftsmen dwell in villages outside this valley, do they not?”
“Most dwell in a village near the end of the ridge to the north.” Lieutenant Menna, who had approached so silently none of the three had heard him, came the rest of the way up the ramp and crossed to them. “It’s within easy walking distance so they can go home each night and return the next morning.”
“That’s why none have seen the malign spirit,” Bak said to Hori and Kasaya. “They’re never here during the hours of darkness when it shows itself.”
“Then that’s why they know nothing of Montu’s death,”
the scribe said. “They weren’t here the night he was slain.”
“If he was slain in the night,” Bak said.
Grimacing, Menna brushed a faint trace of dust off his kilt. “Your morning, it seems, has been as unproductive as mine.”
Bak studied the guard officer, who was almost as neat and clean as when they had first met. Dusty feet and a rivulet of sweat trickling down his breast betrayed no greater effort than walking from the river to Djeser Djeseru. He could not resist asking, “You’ve been looking for rifled tombs?”
Menna looked sincerely rueful. “Unfortunately not. I had reports to dictate. I’d barely finished when I received Pashed’s message that another tomb had been found.”
Rising to his feet, Bak looked across the blocks of stone toward Ineni, the man Pashed had assigned to watch the open shaft. The guard, a lean man of medium height with a reddish birthmark on his neck, was leaning against the reclining lion statue, talking to a dozen or so men. Telling tales of a treasure, he felt sure. Irritated, he asked, “Did you bring the priest Kaemwaset?”
“I couldn’t find him, so I thought it best I come without him. As soon as I return to Waset, I’ll look further. With luck and the favor of the lord Amon, we’ll return before nightfall.”
Bak cursed beneath his breath. “I hope the tomb is made safe before dark. I’ll sleep better tonight if it’s closed and sealed for eternity.”
“You saw jewelry on the body, Pashed said.”
“We did.”
Menna stared at the cluster of men near the reclining lion.
“Ineni is a good man, but I think it best I assign Imen to the task. He’s more responsible by far-and not nearly so talka-tive.” Looking none too enthusiastic, the officer added, “After I’ve dealt with that, I must see the tomb.”
Bak glanced around in search of Pashed, but the chief architect was nowhere to be seen. Rather than take the time to search for him, he said, “I’ll go with you.”
He did not mistrust Menna, but he was firmly convinced that no man should enter a tomb alone. Especially a sepulcher in which jewelry had been seen. At least not until the men who were robbing the dead were snared and taken away.
“You see the bracelets,” Bak said, bending over the wrapped body, his eyes on the jewelry glittering in the torchlight. “They’re of similar workmanship to those I found in Buhen. I’d not be surprised to find that they all were made in a royal workshop.”
Menna knelt for a closer look. “If the shaft hadn’t been so securely closed, the stones too heavy for a few wretched robbers to move without discovery, I’d suspect the objects you found came from this very tomb.”
Bak could understand how tempting the thought was. To conclude that one tomb was being rifled was far more palat-able than the thought that several had been robbed. Which he was certain was the case. The jewelry he had found in the honey jar had been that of royalty. The individual in this small tomb had been important, but not so exalted.
“This makes me more certain than ever that the looted sepulchers are to be found in this area.” He had no authority to tell the guard officer how best to perform his task, but he had every right to ask a few questions. “Have you begun to look again at the cemeteries in western Waset? Especially those near here, where Nebhepetre Montuhotep, his successors, and their noble followers were entombed?”
Menna’s voice grew stiff, defensive. “I wanted first to finish the reports I spoke of earlier. Now that dreary task is complete, leaving me free to lead my men on a new search.”
He stood up, added with a stingy sm
ile, “Never fear, Lieutenant. We’ll begin at first light tomorrow, retracing our steps once again, examining the burial places with the same diligence as before.”
With increased diligence, I hope, Bak thought.
The torch sputtered, emitting a puff of smoke. The odor of burned oil blended with the smell of decay and dry, dusty flowers.
“Don’t misunderstand me.” Bak turned away from the body and, holding the flickering torch before them, led the way down the horizontal tunnel. “I’m in no way criticizing you. I know from experience how difficult it is to snare a man whose very life depends upon remaining unknown and free.”
“I’ve had no experience in pursuing criminals of so vile a nature,” Menna admitted, “but I well know the cemeteries in western Waset, and I know even better the men who dwell here, many of whom look with a covetous eye upon the tombs and the vast wealth they believe they contain.”
“Do you have suspects?”
“I suspect them all.”
In other words, Bak thought, he has no idea who the thief is. He vowed again to keep his eyes open-wide open. And, at the first opportunity, to explore the burial places around Djeser Djeseru and the neighboring temple.
At the top of the shaft the guard Menna had selected had replaced Ineni. Imen was a man of medium height and years with ruddy weathered skin, strong muscles, and the work-hardened hands of one who had toiled in the fields or on the water for much of his life. He looked to be tough and tena-cious, a man not easily frightened. Warned not to gossip, he stood alone. Bak wondered if he would maintain his silence after they left.
“Montu was a pompous ass.” The chief artist Heribsen was either totally without guile or did not care what Bak thought. “The less I had to do with him the happier I was. I went out of my way to avoid him.”
“This temple site is large, but much of it is open to view,”
Bak said. “You surely saw him at a distance.”
The gnome-like man led him through the gap in the incomplete wall and into the temple and its unfinished courtyard. The lord Re had dropped behind the western mountain, leaving much of the building in the shade of the cliff that rose high above it. “He may’ve been slain two days ago, you say?”