by Lauren Haney
Come in, sir. You may as well await my husband in comfort.”
Wishing he could flee, Bak followed her through the front room, which was cluttered with hay for the family donkey, large water and storage jars, spindles and an upright loom, and four ducks nesting in large flattish bowls. She led him into the next room, the primary family living space, whose high ceiling was supported by a single tall red pillar and pierced by windows that allowed inside a generous amount of light. A couple of stools, a woven reed chest, and a tiny table shared the space with the low mudbrick platform on which the family sat and the adults slept.
“Take my husband’s stool, sir. Would you like a beer while you wait?”
“Mistress Ashayet.” He caught her by the upper arms, making her face him. “I regret I must be so harsh, but you leave me no choice. Someone took your husband’s life. He was slain early this morning. In a storehouse in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon.”
“No!” Her eyes met his, a plea formed on her face. “No,” she said again with less assurance, a faltering conviction.
“Your husband is dead, mistress.” He held her tight, forc ing her to give him her full attention. “You must believe me.
You alone shoulder the responsibility for your household, your children. You must be strong for them.”
A look of horror, of unimaginable pain fell over her face like a cloud. She jerked away, stumbled through the next room and into the kitchen, a small area lightly roofed with branches and straw, where she dropped to the hard-packed earthen floor and began to sob. The children gathered around her, lost and forlorn. Bak shifted a stool to a place where he could watch, making sure she did no harm to herself, and sat down to wait.
After what seemed to him an eternity and no doubt longer to a child, the youngest of the three, a girl less than two years of age, began to whimper. The oldest, a boy of no more than four years, looked hopefully at his mother. When she failed to notice, he went to the little girl, put his arms around her, and tried to soothe her. Left alone, the middle child, another boy, hurried to his mother and prodded her, trying to attract her attention.
She lifted her face from her hands, saw the youngsters’ unhappiness and confusion. Gathering her courage, she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and spoke to them in a soft and comforting voice. Not until they returned to their play did she give a long, ragged sigh and look at
Bak. Rising from the floor, she plucked two beer jars from a basket, broke the plugs from both, and entered the room in which he sat.
“Who slew my husband?” she asked.
“We don’t yet know.” Bak saw anger forming, a substitute for sorrow. “I made a vow to Amonked, the Storekeeper of
Amon, that I’d snare the vile criminal-and I will.”
She handed a jar to him and sat on the platform. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. Her expression grew hard and determined. “Woserhet was a good man, Lieutenant, a good father to our children. Whoever took his life must be made to pay with his own life.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve wished him dead?”
“I told you, he was a good man. He had no enemies.”
Bak took a sip of beer, which was milder and smoother than most kitchen brews. The woman erred, thinking her husband had no foes. Woserhet’s death had been no acci dent. “I’ve been told he reported directly to the chief priest.
Can you tell me what his duties were?”
“He seldom spoke of his task. Each time he did, he had me vow that I’d not repeat his words. You must ask Hapuseneb.”
“Hapuseneb is presently walking to Ipet-resyt in today’s procession. He’ll be leading rituals of one kind or another for the remainder of the day and for ten days more. As much as I’d like to speak with him, I can’t.”
She stared at her fingers, wound tightly around the beer jar.
“If I’m to find Woserhet’s slayer, I must begin without de lay. Not in eleven days’ time.”
“I promised…”
He leaned toward her, willing her to help. “Mistress
Ashayet, your husband was responsible for the reversion of offerings for the Beautiful Feast of Opet. To be given so im portant a task, to dole out foodstuffs for such a momentous occasion, he must’ve held some position of responsibility.”
The silence stretched, then suddenly, “He was an auditor.”
“An auditor?” he echoed.
She nodded. “Hapuseneb, the chief priest, sent him to the lord Amon’s storehouses here and throughout the land of
Kemet. He gave him a scribe and four other men, all ser vants indentured to the god. His task and that of Tati, the scribe, was to make sure the records matched the stored items. The other four lifted and fetched, ran errands and, when the need arose, saw that no one impeded them while they went about their task.”
Bak whistled softly. “A heavy responsibility.” A task where a man might well make enemies.
“Yes, sir.” She spoke so softly he could barely hear.
“His most recent audits have been conducted here, I gather, in the southern capital.”
She nodded. “He’s been in Waset for about a month. We were so happy to have him home.” She swallowed hard, flashed a smile much too animated to be real.
“Had his behavior changed recently in any way? As if he might’ve quarreled with a priest or scribe who resented his intrusion? Or as if he’d come upon a dishonesty?”
“He’s been troubled for the past few days, yes.” She could not help but see the expectancy leaping into his heart. “He wouldn’t speak of it, but he was distracted much of the time.
When I tried to draw him out, he grew irritable. Impatient with the children. Quarrelsome even. He wasn’t like that usually.” She bit her lip, her voice trembled. “He was a good, kind man, Lieutenant. Decent. Who would want to slay him?”
Bak knew he must soon leave, allowing her the privacy to mourn. “Did he ever bring home any records?”
“No, sir.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She hastily wiped them away and glanced around the room. “As you can see, we have little enough space. To add anything more would’ve made us too crowded by far.”
“Where would he have kept them?”
“The chief priest assigned him a small building not far from the mansion of the lord Amon, somewhere outside the walls of the sacred precinct. Hapuseneb wished to separate him and his servants from all who might wish to influence them.
Ptahmes, Hapuseneb’s aide, can tell you how to find it.”
“They’ve all gone, sir.” The guard, a man of advanced years with a huge mane of white hair, looked at Bak as at a man befuddled. His task was to watch over the spacious building, built around the open courtyard in which they stood, where the chief priest and his staff carried out their administrative duties. “Surely you know that not a man within the sacred precinct would miss the procession if he didn’t have to.”
“I know that a large number of priests escort the lord
Amon to his southern mansion,” Bak said, smothering his ir ritation, “and I’m also aware that many men must stand well behind them, making sure they’re properly cleansed, clothed, and equipped. I assume much of the preparation is done here, after which they’re free to go.”
“I fear, Lieutenant, that you suffer from the common illu sion that priests are an idle lot. Most toil from dawn till dusk, their tasks never ending.”
The old man was so haughty Bak wondered if he had been a priest. “What of Ptahmes? Is he equally industrious or might I find him watching the procession?”
The guard pursed his lips in disapproval. “He certainly can’t speak with you today. He’s at Ipet-resyt, preparing for the lord Amon’s arrival and the rituals that will be conducted through the next ten days.”
Bak gave up. With no one available to help, he had no choice but to forget the dead man for the remainder of the day and give himself over to the festivities.
Bak stood on the processional way in front
of the barque sanctuary where last he had seen his Medjays. As expected, the structure was empty, his men gone. Gods and royalty had long ago marched on, accompanied by the priests and digni taries, the dancers and acrobats and singers. The spectators had drifted away, many following their sovereigns and gods to Ipet-resyt. Those few satisfied they had seen enough were making their way home, while a large number had gone off in search of beer and a good time. The booths had been dis mantled to be carried farther along the route and set up again. The soldiers had broken ranks to join the rest in what ever endeavor most appealed to them.
He had forgotten how utterly deserted the processional way could be after everyone moved on. Sparrows twittered undisturbed in a sycamore whose limbs brushed the sanctu ary. Leaves rustled along the crushed limestone path, blown by the desultory breeze. Crows marched across trampled grasses and weeds, searching for bits of food dropped and forgotten. A dog gnawing a bone growled each time one of the large black and gray birds came close, threatening to steal his prize.
Bak glanced at the lord Re, already three-quarters of the way across the vault of heaven. No wonder he was hungry.
The food vendors would, by this time, have all moved to the far end of the processional way, near Ipet-resyt. More than a quarter hour’s fast walk.
He hastened southward. At first he had the path to him self, but the farther he strode, the more people he came upon. Many walked toward Ipet-resyt, while a few strode in the opposite direction. Some in a rush and others ambling along as if they had all the time in the world. People alone or in groups, chatting and laughing. Persons with the seri ous demeanors of the awe-struck or devout. Revelers who had watched the sacred barques and their sovereigns pass by and now saw fit to make merry. The few remaining po lice and soldiers turned a blind eye to all but the worst of fenses.
About halfway between Ipet-isut and Ipet-resyt, Bak spot 46
Lauren Haney ted two familiar figures approaching from the south: his scribe Hori and Kasaya, the youngest of his Medjays. He waved. Smiling with pleasure, they hastened to meet him.
“What are you two doing here?” he asked. “Have you grown weary of the pageantry?”
“We were looking for you, sir,” Hori said, falling in beside him. Delighted with the festival, the chubby young scribe practically skipped along the path.
“Where are the rest of our men?”
Kasaya took his place on Bak’s opposite side and they strode southward. “As soon as the procession was well away from the first barque sanctuary, Imsiba went off with his wife, leaving Pashenuro in command.” The tall, hulking young Medjay shifted his shield to a more comfortable posi tion and slung his spear over his shoulder in a very unsol dierly fashion. “He suggested we all stay together and keep up with the procession. So we did, hoping you’d rejoin us.”
“When the lord Amon rested at the fourth barque sanctu ary, we saw Amonked slip in among the noblemen, but you weren’t with him.” Hori eyed a pretty young woman stand ing in the shade of a sycamore with what had to be her par ents and siblings. “For the longest time, he was surrounded by people of wealth and position, and we couldn’t get near him.”
The young Medjay noticed Hori’s wandering attention and winked at Bak. “At the seventh barque sanctuary,
Pashenuro finally managed to speak with him. To ask him where you were.”
The girl turned her head to look at the three of them and
Hori glanced quickly away, his face flaming. “He told us of the dead man and said you’d stayed behind to investigate.
We could probably find you in the sacred precinct.”
“So we decided to look,” Kasaya said.
Half facing Bak, the scribe danced sideways up the pro cessional way, his feet scuffling the limestone chips, the girl forgotten. “Will you tell us about the dead man, sir? Who was he? What was he doing in the sacred precinct? Was he…?”
Laughing, Bak raised a hand for silence. While he spoke of all he had seen and heard, they hurried on. The crowds walking along with them grew thicker, the talking and laughter louder, more anticipatory. Seldom did anyone have the opportunity to see their sovereigns down on their knees before the lord Amon, adoring the deity with incense and food offerings. But here and now, at the beginning of the
Beautiful Feast of Opet, all who could get close enough could witness their rulers’ public subjugation to their divine father.
Bak vividly remembered the first time he had seen the of fering ritual, the disappointment he had felt. The festival had been much less grand during the reign of Akheperenre
Thutmose, the ritual not so formalized. Bak had been a child of ten or so years, grown too large to sit on his father’s shoulders. The older man had knelt so his son could stand on his knee and look around the heads of the multitudes.
The lord Amon had been concealed within his golden shrine, their sovereign kneeling, hidden by the crowd. He had seen nothing.
“Who do you think slew him, sir?” Hori asked.
Kasaya laughed. “How would Lieutenant Bak know that?
He hasn’t met anyone worthy of suspicion.”
“He met Woserhet’s wife.”
“Why would she slay him in the sacred precinct when she could much easier have slain him at home?”
Bak spotted Meryamon ahead, standing in the shade of a grove of date palms that towered over the sixth barque sanc tuary. The young priest was looking one way and then an other, studying the people walking along the processional way, and peering down the lanes that ended near the sanctu ary. He had been in such a hurry to leave the sacred precinct, yet here he was, apparently waiting for someone. A woman perhaps?
Hori flung a contemptuous look at the young Medjay.
“She wouldn’t want to point a finger at herself. Which she’d be doing if she cut his throat while he lay sleeping.”
“Cut his throat!” Kasaya shook his head in disgust. “A woman cut a man’s throat? No!”
Bak groaned inwardly. The pair’s squabbling seemed never to end. Fortunately neither took the other seriously and their friendship remained firm.
“If she was angry enough…” Hori turned to Bak. “Is
Woserhet’s wife a large woman, sir?”
“She’s small and slight. I suppose she could’ve slain him in the heat of anger, but I doubt it.” Bak felt a trickle of sweat working its way down his breastbone, his mouth felt as dry as the desert, and his stomach as empty as the barren wastes. Tearing his thoughts from himself, he thought over his conversation with Ashayet. “She was very upset when I told her of his death, and I saw no pretense in her sobbing.
After she collected herself, she became angry, and that, too, was no sham.” He shook his head. “No, she did not slay her husband, of that I’m convinced.”
“What of the priest Meryamon?” Hori asked, unaware of the fact that they were approaching the man of whom he spoke.
Bak’s eyes leaped forward to the young priest, who had left the palm grove and was striding up the processional way toward Ipet-resyt. He was not hurrying, but he was walking with purpose. “I suppose he could’ve slain him, but what reason would he have? He does nothing day after day but care for, hand out, and take back the special items used in the rituals.”
“What reason would anyone have?” Kasaya asked.
“Woserhet was an auditor,” Hori said scornfully. “Audi tors make enemies.”
Kasaya matched derision with derision. “Within the sa cred precinct?”
“Priests are no different than anyone else. They can be tempted by wealth. They can be seduced by a beautiful woman. They can get frustrated and angry. Since he was an auditor…” The young scribe stubbed his toe on a rock and stumbled. “Well, I’d sure be unhappy if I found someone prying in my records.”
Ahead, Meryamon veered around a large family group and Bak lost sight of him.
“Was he slain in anger, sir?” the young Medjay asked.
Bak raised his baton of office, responding to the salut
e of four soldiers walking in the opposite direction. “An inspec tion of the partly burned documents might give us an idea of what he was doing. If we can find a reason among them for slaying a man, we may conclude that anger was not a factor.”
Hori did not have to be told who would go through the documents. “When am I to start, sir?”
“At break of day tomorrow. I’ve sealed the room, but have told the guards to allow you inside.” Bak veered to the edge of the crushed limestone path. The scribe and Medjay fell in line behind him and they walked around the family group.
When they were once again close enough to talk, he said, “I wish you to sort the scrolls that were scattered around the body into three groups: those too burned to read, those partly burned, and those you find undamaged.”
Meryamon, again in view, had increased his speed and was catching up with another loose group of people. Bak, his curiosity aroused, also walked faster.
“How can I help, sir?” Kasaya asked.
Noting the expectant look on the Medjay’s face, the hope that he could be of use, Bak gave him the only assignment he could think of. “You can stand guard, making sure no one enters the room and disturbs Hori.”
Kasaya nodded, satisfied with a task he must have known was unnecessary. “Yes, sir.”
“While you sort the documents…” Bak saw Meryamon closing on the people ahead. “… I’ll be searching out Woserhet’s scribe. With luck and the help of the lord Amon, he’ll know what the auditor was looking for, and he may even point us toward the slayer.”
Meryamon moved up close to a man with fuzzy red hair.
Briefly the two walked side by side. Whether they spoke to each other, Bak was unable to tell. He could not say exactly why, but he thought they did-and he could have sworn the priest passed something to the other man before quickly moving on.
“What are we to do today?” Hori asked.
“We can’t do anything,” Bak said. “The sacred precinct is deserted except for a few guards, and all who aren’t making merry must by this time be watching the ritual outside Ipet resyt. You’re free to enjoy the festival.”