by Lauren Haney
The words tailed off and he licked his lips, uneasy with the memory. “We dared not let it reach the roof for fear it would spread to the adjoining storage magazines. We keep aro matic oils in this block and if they were to catch fire…” He had no need to explain further. A major conflagration might have resulted, sweeping through, at the very least, this sector of the sacred precinct.
“You did well,” Amonked said, letting his gaze touch every man among them. “You’re to be commended for such swift action.”
Bak peered through the door. A small room had been walled off from the rest of the storehouse. Illuminated only by the natural light falling through the door, it was too dark to see well. The body lay in shadow, the floor around it clut tered with charred papyrus scrolls and the reddish shards of broken pottery storage jars. The dead man’s clothing was wet, as were the documents lying in the puddle around him.
The smell was stronger here.
“We need light,” he said, “a torch.”
The boy sped down the lane and vanished. In no time at all, he hurried back with a short-handled torch, its flame ir regular but free of smoke.
Bak took the light and stepped into the room. He tried not to breathe, but the stench of blood, fire, body waste, burned oil, and charred flesh caught in his throat. As accustomed as he was to death, he felt ill. Swallowing bile, hardening his heart, he walked deeper inside. Careful not to disturb any thing on the floor, he knelt beside the dead man. Amonked entered the room, gasped.
The body was that of a sharp-faced man of about thirty five years, small and wiry. The fire, which had burned many of the scrolls lying around him, had consumed one side of his kilt and had darkened and blistered the right side of his body. A blackened oil lamp, a possible source of the fire, lay broken at his feet. His throat had been cut, the gaping wound dark and ugly. The pool of blood around his head and shoul ders had been diluted by water, making it difficult to tell ex 32
Lauren Haney actly how much the man had lost, but quite a lot. Bak guessed he had been lifeless when the fire started. He prayed such had been the case.
“Do you know him?” he asked Amonked.
“Woserhet.” Amonked cleared his throat, swallowed. “He was a ranking scribe, but was to serve throughout the Opet festival as a priest. He’d been given the responsibility for this year’s reversion of offerings.”
The daily ceremony was one in which food offerings were distributed as extra rations to personnel who toiled in the god’s mansion and to others who petitioned for a share. Why would a man who held such an important but transitory and innocuous task be slain?
“I’d guess the slayer stood behind him, reached around him knife in hand, and slashed his throat with a single deep and firm stroke.” With an absentminded smile, Bak accepted a jar of beer from the boy who had brought them from the barque sanctuary over an hour earlier. “He was slain in much the same way as the Hittite merchant we found dead last week.”
The boy, wide-eyed with curiosity and thrilled at being al lowed to help, handed a jar to Amonked and another to
Meryamon. Taking the remaining jar for himself, he plopped down on the hard-packed earthen floor of the portico that shaded three sides of the open courtyard. After the dead man had been carried off to the house of death, he had brought them to this peaceful haven in one of several buildings that housed the offices of the priests and scribes responsible for the storehouses.
“You believe Maruwa and Woserhet were slain by the same man?” Frowning his disbelief, Amonked pushed a low stool into the shade and dropped onto it. “What would they have in common?”
“Both men’s lives were taken in a similar manner, that’s all I’m saying.” Bak gave the Storekeeper of Amon a fleeting smile. “To tie the two together would be stretching credibil ity. Unless there was a link between them that we know nothing about.”
“One man was burned and the other wasn’t,” Amonked pointed out. “Would not that suggest two different slayers?”
“Probably.” Bak rested a shoulder against a wooden col umn carved to resemble a tied bundle of papyri. “What task do you have, Meryamon, that delayed you in leaving the sa cred precinct?”
The young priest sat on the ground near Amonked. His eyes darted frequently toward the portal and the men hurry ing along the lane outside on their way to the gate, eager to watch the procession. Whether intentional or not, his desire to follow was apparent. “I distribute to the officiating priests items used in the sacred rituals: censers, lustration vessels, aromatic oils and incense, and whatever else they need.”
Pride blossomed on his face. “I perform the task throughout the Beautiful Feast of Opet, yes, but also for the regular daily rituals and the various other festivals.”
“A position of responsibility,” Amonked said.
Meryamon flashed a smile. “I daily thank the lord Thoth that I was diligent in my studies and learned to read and write with ease and at a young age.” Thoth was the patron god of scribes.
The leaves rustled in the tall sycamore tree in the center of the court, and Bak spotted a small gray monkey swinging through the upper branches. “So you’re not a man who serves the lord Amon periodically. You earn your bread within the sacred precinct.”
“Yes, sir. And I dwell here as well. I share quarters with several other priests who, like me, have yet to take a spouse.”
Bak glanced at Amonked, thinking to defer to him, but the
Storekeeper of Amon urged him to continue with a nod of the head. “Tell me of the men who helped put out the fire.
Why did they remain behind?”
“Most were passersby, heading out to watch the pro 34
Lauren Haney cession. The three guards, I assume, were ordered to stay, to keep an eye on the gates and patrol this sector of the sacred precinct.” Meryamon smiled ruefully. “Bad luck for them, having to stay while their mates were given leave to play.”
Bak felt as if he were fishing in a muddy backwater, pok ing his harpoon at random in a place he couldn’t see. “The room where Woserhet was found. What was its purpose?”
“It’s a records storage room, sir, a place where we keep scrolls on which are recorded activities conducted in that particular block of storage magazines. Each object is tracked from delivery to disposal. Like other men with similar tasks,
I make a note of each and every object I remove and return, and many of my own transactions are stored there.” A shadow passed across the priest’s face. “Or were.”
“The room received a moderate amount of damage, but a considerable number of scrolls lay on the floor. Do you have any idea how many records might’ve been lost?”
“I noticed a number of empty spaces-fifteen or twenty,
I’d guess-on the shelves along the walls and quite a few broken storage pots on the floor. So many jars would’ve con tained a significant number of scrolls, but the vast majority, I thank the lord Amon, were saved.”
Amonked broke his silence. “How well did you know
Woserhet, Meryamon?”
“Not at all, sir. I’ve seen him now and again and I knew his name, but I didn’t know he was responsible for the rever sion of offerings.”
Amonked looked skeptical. “Are you not the man who’ll supply ritual implements and incense to that ceremony?”
“Yes, sir,” Meryamon said, looking uncomfortable, “but I must deal with Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, not the man who performs the ritual. I had no need to know who he was.”
“There goes a singularly uninquisitive man,” Amonked said later as they watched the priest hurry away.
Bak and Amonked strolled into the lovely limestone court in front of the imposing pylon gate that rose before the man sion of the lord Amon. The last of the procession had moved on, leaving the enclosure empty and quiet. The banners flut tered lazily atop the tall flagpoles clamped to the front of the pylon. Birds twittered in a clump of trees outside the court, and a yellow kitten chased a leaf blown over the wall by th
e breeze. A faint floral aroma rose from a slick of oil someone had spilled on the floor.
Built fifteen or so years earlier by Akheperenre Thutmose,
Maatkare Hatshepsut’s deceased spouse and Menkheperre
Thutmose’s father, the court contained two small limestone chapels. In each, a central stone base supported a statue of the lord Min, a fertility god identified closely with the lord
Amon. One structure was of an ancient date, built many gen erations ago by Kheperkare Senwosret, and the other more recent, erected just fifty years earlier by Djeserkare Amon hotep, grandfather to Maatkare Hatshepsut.
“Were the scrolls set on fire deliberately to burn the body?” Bak asked, thinking aloud, “or to get rid of informa tion the slayer wished to destroy? Or did the slayer-or
Woserhet himself-accidentally tip over an oil lamp and set them on fire?” He did not expect an answer and he got none.
“Woserhet was a senior scribe who reported directly to the chief priest.” Amonked’s face was grave. “I never met the man, merely saw him several times at a distance, but ac cording to Hapuseneb, the chief priest, he was extremely competent and adept at dealing with difficult situations.”
“Not adept enough, it seems.”
Ignoring the mild sarcasm, Amonked rested his backside against the balustrade wall that rose up the outer edge of a broad but shallow stairway giving access to the older of the two chapels. “I fear I wasn’t entirely forthright when I stopped to chat with you earlier today. I’d received a disturb ing message from Woserhet and thought to have you go with me when I met him. Unfortunately, with the procession up 36
Lauren Haney permost in my thoughts-and in everyone else’s, I as sumed-I saw no need for haste.”
Bak gave him a sharp look. “You’d never met him and yet he wrote to you?”
“Hapuseneb must shoulder many tasks through the length of the Beautiful Feast of Opet. As a result, he’ll be unavail able much of the time. He told me he’d given Woserhet a special assignment and asked me to be available should he need me. He said Woserhet would explain if necessary.”
Amonked glanced at the kitten, his expression troubled. “I agreed and thought no more of it. Much to my regret now that we’ve found him dead.”
Bak leaned against the low outer wall of the beautifully symmetrical building, indifferent to its rich reliefs of the an cient king and the lord Min. The colors, though no longer as vibrant as they once had been, were still lively enough to please the eye and lighten the heart of a man far less preoc cupied than he. “Can you tell me what the message said?”
Amonked released a long, unhappy sigh. “It was short and direct, and I fear it deepens the mystery surrounding his death. He said he’d learned something quite shocking and requested a private meeting before nightfall this day.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.” Amonked stood erect and signaled that they must leave. “I feel I’ve let Hapuseneb down, and I don’t like to think of myself as a man who fails to live up to his prom ises.” He paused, obviously reluctant to speak out. “I hesi tate to ask you, as you must be looking forward to the festival as much as everyone else. But I wish you to discover what the message refers to and to snare Woserhet’s slayer.
Hopefully before the end of the festival when the lord Amon returns to Ipet-isut and you must travel on to Mennufer.”
Chapter Three
“Like the priest said, most were headed out of the sacred precinct. They were all in a hurry; didn’t want to miss the start of the procession.” The older guard, Tetynefer, glanced at his two companions, who nodded agreement. “Like us, they heard him yell and came running. None of us wasted any time talking. That fire had to be put out.”
“The well is close, I see.” Bak looked over the waist-high wall that protected the broad, round mouth of the well. In side, a spiraling stairway led down to a platform that encir cled the top of a narrower shaft up which water was drawn.
“Still, it takes a lot of water to put out a fire-and it must be delivered fast.”
“You see the problem,” Tetynefer said, eyeing the officer with respect. “Water alone would never have done the task.”
A tall, sturdy young guard whose accent marked him as a man of the north grinned. “Tetynefer sent me off in search of something to smother it. The lord Amon smiled on me, and right away I found a heavy woolen cloak.”
“I led the rest off to the well.” Tetynefer looked upon the young man with considerable pride. “By the time I got back with a jar of water, he’d shoved well out of the way all the scrolls that weren’t burning and had quenched the fire lick ing the ends of others.” He motioned toward the young man’s sandals, which were black and charred. An angry red burn ran up the side of his right ankle. “Look at his feet. No common sense at all but the courage of a lion.”
Trying without success to look modest, the young guard said, “As soon as they brought the water, it was all over.”
“We didn’t get a good look at the dead man until the fire was out.” The third guard, a shorter and stouter man, stood his shield against the wall and knelt beside it. “We saw the wound in his neck and sent the boy for the Overseer of Over seers. Instead he brought you and the Storekeeper of Amon.”
Bak turned away from the well and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by a half-dozen date palms. Fronds rustled above his head, stirred by the light breeze, and the sweet song of a hoopoe filled the air.
“Since most men would give their best kilts to see the pro cession, I assume you were ordered to stay,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” Tetynefer hunkered down in the scruffy grass in front of him. “I’ve seen enough processions to satisfy me through eternity, and these two,” he nodded toward his com panions, “grew to manhood in Waset. Our sergeant thought to give men new to the capital the opportunity to watch.”
The sturdy guard looked up from the dirt in which he was drawing stick men. “He’s vowed to assign us to the court yard in front of Ipet-isut when the lord Amon returns from his southern mansion. We’ll get to see him close up, closer than we ever would standing alongside the processional way. And the other gods and our sovereigns, too.”
A fair exchange of duties, Bak agreed. “Amonked and I saw no sentry when we came through the gate, and unless
I’m mistaken, no one’s on duty there now. Aren’t the gates guarded?”
“Yes, sir. At least in a manner of speaking.” The tall guard leaned back against the wall of the well, raised his spear, and shoved it hard into the ground, making it stand erect. “Our task is to keep an eye on the gate and at the same time patrol the streets and lanes within this sector of the sacred precinct, making sure no one roams around who has no right to be here.”
His shorter companion nodded. “With so many people come to Waset from afar, you never know who might allow his curiosity to lead him inside to explore.”
“Or to take something of value,” Tetynefer added.
Bak was not especially surprised at so casual an attitude toward guarding the sacred precinct. Few people would risk offending the greatest of the gods. “Did any of you happen to see Woserhet arrive?”
“I did,” Tetynefer said. “He came from the north, as if from the god’s mansion. I wouldn’t have noticed him-there were too many others hustling and bustling around, per forming tasks related to the festival-but he was so deep within his thoughts that he stumbled over a blind dog that lays in the lane every morning, warming his tired old bones.
He felt so bad he gave me a food token, telling me to get meat for the cur. After that he went into the storage maga zine where Meryamon found him.”
“Did you go then to get the meat?” Bak asked.
“I didn’t have time.” Tetynefer’s eyes narrowed, fearing
Bak might be questioning his honesty rather than his where abouts. “Never fear, sir. I’ll not take food from a dog’s mouth.”
Bak reassured him with a smile. “The three of you never left this sector af
ter Woserhet came?”
“No, sir,” they said as one.
“After he entered the storehouse, how much time passed before Meryamon smelled smoke?”
“A half hour.” Tetynefer’s eyes darted toward the younger guards. “I told you right away about the token. Would a half hour be a fair guess?”
The stout one nodded; the other looked doubtful. “Closer to an hour, I’d say.”
“Did you notice any strangers wandering around after he came?”
The three guards laughed.
“One man in three, maybe one in four, was a stranger,” the taller guard explained. “During this busy time, the regular priests need all the help they can get.”
Bak listened to the chatter of birds in the otherwise silent sacred precinct and imagined how full of life it must have been so short a time ago. The mansion of the god and the many buildings crowded around it, literally a city within the city of Waset, had been alive with people and activity. Then almost everyone had gone, leaving the streets and lanes de serted, the buildings empty, the scrolls and sacred vessels abandoned. The slayer could have struck at any time, but the most opportune time would have been those last few confus ing moments when everyone was preparing to leave, too busy to notice and too eager to get away.
“He’s not dead! He can’t be!”
“I’m sorry, mistress Ashayet, but you must believe me.
His ka has flown to the netherworld.” Of all Bak’s many and varied duties as a police officer, the one he disliked the most was informing the family of a loved one’s death.
The small, fragile woman knelt, wrapped her arms around the three young children clinging to her skirt, and hugged them close. “We’re waiting for him. He’ll come at any in stant to take us to Ipet-resyt to see the end of the procession.”
“Mistress Ashayet…”
She released the children, stepped back, and sent them to ward the rear of the house with a fond slap on the oldest one’s bare behind. She smiled brightly at Bak. “What can I be thinking, leaving you standing in the doorway like this?