Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  The two young men exchanged a glance that told Bak they were not disappointed at their release from duty.

  “And you, sir?” Kasaya asked.

  “I hope to find Amonked at Ipet-resyt. He’ll want a re port.”

  Meryamon merged into the crowd ahead. The red-haired man turned off the processional way into a side lane. He stopped in the shadow of a white-plastered mudbrick build ing and looked at something in his hand. Dropping it to the ground, he stepped on it, hurried on down the lane, and van ished among the small, decrepit houses that lined this por tion of the processional way.

  Bak, more curious than ever, plunged off the thoroughfare and into the lane where the redhead had been. On the ground he found the crushed pieces of a gray pottery shard. Kneel ing, he picked up a few of the larger fragments and studied them. He saw signs of writing, a message destroyed.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” Hori asked, eyeing the grayish bits with curiosity.

  Bak shrugged. “I thought I saw the priest Meryamon pass something to another man. I wondered what it was, that’s all.”

  “A note?”

  Bak slipped out of the lane and looked up the processional way. Meryamon had vanished in the crowd ahead. “I’ll ask him when next I see him.”

  Chapter Four

  Bak, Hori, and Kasaya passed the final barque sanctuary and stopped at the southern end of the processional way to look upon the crowd ahead. After dwelling three years on the southern frontier, where man could eke out a living only on a narrow strip of land along the river, keeping the population low, the vast number of individuals gathered in this one place was staggering.

  “I grew to manhood across the river and often came to the festival,” Hori said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.

  Each year more people come from afar and each year the procession is grander.”

  “And more wonders are offered to tickle the senses,”

  Kasaya said. “The food, the acrobats, the musicians…” He chopped off the rest of the thought, distracted by a sultry young woman passing by.

  Bak smiled. “Are you as hungry as I am?”

  Hori shook his head. “We ate not an hour ago.”

  Clearing his thoughts of death and duty, Bak led the way in among the crowd that filled the large walled court in front of Ipet-resyt. At the back of the court rose the main gate through the high mudbrick wall that enclosed the lord

  Amon’s southern mansion and its support buildings. The procession had earlier passed into the sacred precinct, leav ing the court swarming with people. They milled around the flimsy booths amid a buzz of talk and laughter, purchasing what struck their fancy or pausing to watch performances designed to please the eye and excite the senses: acrobats, dancers, and musicians; trained animals and mischievous monkeys; archery contests, pole fights and wrestling matches. Men and women from the land of Kemet shared their joy in the greatest of the gods with dark, smiling strangers from far to the south and bearded and mysterious foreigners from the north. The poor gaped at the wealthy, at their fine jewelry and elaborate, bejeweled wigs. The afflu ent inspected one another’s garb and hairstyles more furtively, but with an equally avid interest. Sharp-eyed po licemen and soldiers walked among them, seeking out thieves and mischief makers.

  Attracted by the smell of roasting meat, Bak wove his way to its source, where a man squatted beside an open and very smoky hearth over which was suspended the well cooked carcass of a lamb. He traded garrison tokens for sev eral pieces, a loaf of bread and, at another booth, three jars of beer. Rejoining Hori and Kasaya, he found a section of wall near the rear of the court on which they could sit while they ate. The two young men consumed the food as greedily as he.

  From where they sat, they watched the activity around them. Children played tag or hide and seek among the booths and in the crowd, shrieking their delight. Cats and monkeys poked through garbage thrown behind the booths and out side the wall, sniffing out bits of food before it could rot in the heat. Dogs walked among the people, ready to pounce on any edible scrap. Grooms led finely matched teams of horses pulling empty chariots out of the sacred precinct and through the multitude to vanish down a side street.

  Their meal finished, Bak climbed atop the wall to scan the court in search of Amonked. He spotted his Medjays scat tered around, watching a variety of performances, but could not find Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin. He must have gone with the procession into the sacred precinct.

  The number of revelers was increasing dramatically, with people approaching from all directions. The crowd was spilling out of the court and north along the processional way. Additional booths offering innumerable delicacies and temptations were being set up to accommodate the swelling throng. Fresh dancers and musicians and acrobats, wrestlers, stick fighters and boxers streamed into the melee. The sounds of merrymaking must have carried to the far edges of the city.

  Bak sent the two young men on their way and set out to find Amonked. At the gate to the sacred precinct, a member of the royal guard noted his baton of office and allowed him to pass through. Inside, a large open court lay between the gate and the deep, columned portico that stood in front of the god’s mansion. The crush of people was intense. The fine clothing worn by most marked them as men and women of wealth and position. The rest were soldiers, priests, and envoys representing the kings of far-off lands.

  Booths lined the walls, these containing offerings to the gods: huge mounds of fruits and vegetables; fowl and beef; jars of wine, beer, honey, aromatic oils; vessels of gold and bronze; masses of flowers. Bak could not recall ever seeing such a magnificent display of plenty.

  Seven fine steers crowded into a corner, bawling, terrified by the smell of fresh blood. Nearby, butchers were killing, bleeding, and cutting up the animals’ brethren, more gifts to the gods. The air was heavy with the smells of manure, in cense, blood, perfume, and sweat.

  He looked the length of the long court toward the south ern mansion of the lord Amon and relived for an instant the first time he had been brought to the ritual, a four-year-old child sitting high on his father’s shoulders. Then as now, he had glimpsed gold-the barques of the gods-over the many heads, but, as before, he could not see his sovereigns.

  In spite of himself, in spite of the fact that Maatkare Hat shepsut had exiled him to the southern frontier and the youthful Menkheperre Thutmose held little power, he felt a pang of disappointment.

  He spotted Amonked standing not far from the main gate with the chief treasurer Djehuty and Pentu, the governor of

  Tjeny. With them were Pentu’s wife and her sister, a man with the shaven head of a priest, and one with white hair who stood as rigid as a soldier. Except for the priest and the older man, all wore sumptuous wigs and jewelry befitting their lofty status.

  Amonked saw Bak, spoke a few words to his compan ions, and parted from them to join the policeman. “You’ve news.”

  “Nothing of note, I regret to say.” Bak went on to report what he had seen and learned. “Perhaps tomorrow I’ll un earth more, but any further effort today will be futile.”

  “Considering the circumstances, you’ve done well.”

  Amonked clapped him on the shoulder, smiled. “Now come with me. I understand you met Pentu and Djehuty a few days ago. You must get to know them better.”

  Before Bak could offer an objection, Amonked took his arm and ushered him toward the small group. Certain such lofty individuals as the chief treasurer of Kemet and a provincial governor would have no more than a vague mem ory of him standing on the ship with Commandant Thuty, he was surprised by the friendly manner in which the two men greeted him.

  “You remember my wife, Taharet, of course.” Pentu took the tall young woman’s hand and gave her an adoring smile.

  She bowed her head briefly, acknowledging Bak, and eyed him with an open curiosity that made him feel like a beetle crossing the sand beneath the sharp eye of a curious boy with an empty jar in his hand.

  The governor glance
d at his wife, passing along a secret thought, and smiled at the other woman. “This is her younger sister Meret, if you recall.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bak said, choosing not to point out that he had never met either woman, merely seen them at a distance.

  Meret’s eyes twinkled with good humor, as if she recog nized the situation in which he found himself. “We’d newly arrived in Waset and you were on the ship moored behind ours. You were with a garrison commander from the south, I believe.”

  “Commandant Thuty, yes.”

  “This is Sitepehu, Lieutenant.” Pentu laid his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “He’s high priest of the lord Inheret and a trusted adviser, a friend as close to me as a brother.”

  Well formed in body and face, Sitepehu looked to be about forty years of age. An ugly puckered scar on his left shoulder testified to an early career in the army. Inheret was the divine huntsman, an ancient god identified with the lord Shu, son of the lord Re. Tjeny was his primary seat of worship.

  The priest smiled, but before he could respond to the in troduction, Pentu beckoned to his side the older man with military bearing. “This is my longtime aide Netermose, a man of infinite patience, whose willingness to assist me in all my endeavors knows no bounds.”

  Bak looked upon the aide with interest. The man’s deeply lined and unattractive features seemed not to fit his slight build and softly curling white hair. Most men in his position were much younger, men who would readily accept menial tasks and adapt themselves to their master’s whims in the hope of bettering themselves later in life.

  “Can we not leave this place, my love?” Taharet asked.

  “The heat is suffocating and the stench is making me ill.”

  Looking shamefaced at her gentle but definite reminder that he was neglecting his duty toward her, the governor glanced around as if he had forgotten the brilliant sunlight, the milling crowd, the bawling cattle, and the competing smells. “Forgive me, dearest. Of course we must leave.”

  “I’d hoped we could get closer to Ipet-resyt, where we could watch Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose make offerings to the lord Amon. We’re so far away now…” The words tailed off and she looked hopefully at

  Amonked.

  “I’ve done my best, my love.” Pentu took her arm and walked her toward the gate.

  “I sometimes wish your best would be more effective.”

  Amonked and Djehuty exchanged a look of clear disap proval. Meret’s face was expressionless, her feelings about the exchange closed to the world. Sitepehu and Netermose carefully avoided each other’s eyes as if embarrassed by the governor’s show of weakness.

  Outside the sacred precinct, the aide led them across the crowded court to a half circle of shade cast by a sycamore whose limbs reached over the wall. The people occupying the space, farm servants if their appearance told true, took one look at the lofty intruders and hastened away, leaving them in relative peace and quiet.

  Taharet took a square of linen from beneath a bracelet and patted the moisture from her forehead. Smiling at Amonked, she said, “We have a dwelling near here, sir.” She pointed gracefully toward several blocks of large interconnected multistory houses built to the east of Ipet-resyt. “You can see it from where we stand. The three-story building with trees growing from pots beneath the pavilion on the roof.”

  “How nice,” Amonked said.

  Bak smothered a smile. Amonked’s voice had been as neutral as Meret’s expression had been. Since a babe, he had walked the corridors of the royal house. When the need arose for tact or dissimulation, he had no master. As in this case, where he disapproved of the woman, but preferred not to alienate her doting husband.

  “Ah, here comes Pahure.” Pentu smiled at a man hurrying out of a shadowy lane separating two of the building blocks.

  “He’s my steward. Thanks to him, our temporary move to

  Waset has gone so smoothly I’ve barely noticed the change of residence.”

  Several male and female servants followed the steward.

  Upon entering the court through a side entrance, Pahure strode toward Pentu and his party, while the others veered into the throng, intent on merrymaking. The belt of his calf length kilt was snug across the beginnings of a paunch. His broad beaded collar accented heavily muscled shoulders and upper arms. Bak guessed him to be close on thirty-five years.

  Pentu introduced him, as generous with his praise as he had been with Netermose and Sitepehu. The moment he paused for breath, Taharet began firing questions at Pahure about several household tasks.

  Sitepehu bestowed upon the pair a bland, unrevealing look and turned his back to them. “Before you joined us in the sacred precinct, Lieutenant, Amonked was singing your praises. You must’ve led quite a life on the southern frontier.

  I’ve heard those desert tribesmen can be fierce.”

  “Bak was a police officer, a most successful one.”

  Amonked spoke with considerable pride, as an uncle might speak of his most favored nephew. “Understandably, a fron tier policeman must first and foremost be a soldier.”

  “It appears that you’ve seen battle, sir,” Bak said, thinking to deflect attention from himself.

  Sitepehu touched the scar on his shoulder, shrugged. “A skirmish, nothing more. It occurred in the land of Retenu.

  You know how those petty rulers of city states can be.

  Every king affects the sensitivity of a newborn lamb. The slightest insult from another king and he sets out to right what he claims is a wrong, with the further acquisition of wealth and power his real goal. My infantry company found itself between two such kings.” Suddenly he laughed. “So here I stand, marked for life.”

  Bak laughed with him. He, too, had scars, but none so dramatic. “We fought few real battles in Wawat. Our ene mies were usually smugglers or a few ragged bandits out to steal from a helpless village.”

  Amonked, who knew from personal experience how bitter the fighting could get on the frontier, frowned his disap proval.

  Pahure slipped away from Taharet to join them. “I long ago served on a ship that more often than not sailed the

  Great Green Sea. We fought pirates mostly.” He gave his companions a wry smile. “The battles I’d rather remember occurred in foreign ports, where we drank and made merry and fought for the pleasure of doing so.”

  Netermose’s smile was rueful. “I fear my finest battles have been in Tjeny, convincing the landholders to pay all the taxes due my master and the royal house.” He directed the smile at Pentu. “Unlike your contests, sir, where tact and diplomacy have won the day.”

  “Not always, Netermose, as you well know. I’ve…”

  Taharet laid her hand on her husband’s arm, interrupting with the indifference of a woman utterly secure in her posi tion. “We’re having guests tomorrow,” she said to Amonked.

  “We’d like you and your worthy spouse to honor us with your presence.”

  “I regret that my wife cannot come. She’s a chantress of the lord Amon. A noteworthy honor, certainly, but a task re quiring time and dedication throughout the festival. She’ll be fully occupied for the next ten days.”

  Taharet looked appropriately impressed and at the same time disappointed. “Will you not come alone?”

  “I don’t usually…” Amonked hesitated, glanced at Bak, smiled. “If you’ll allow me to bring my young friend here,

  I’d be glad to drop by.”

  Taharet beamed at him, at her husband, and at Bak. “You will come, won’t you, Lieutenant?”

  Bak had a feeling something was going on that had passed over his head. He queried Amonked with a glance. The

  Storekeeper of Amon nodded and formed a smile that could have meant anything. Bak accepted.

  “I’m delighted.” Taharet flung a smile at her sister. “And so is Meret. You’ll find her a most pleasing companion.”

  Not until the small group had broken up and he and

  Amonked were strolling through t
he crowded, festive court did it occur to him that Amonked and maybe Djehuty or

  Pentu were trying to make a match of him and Meret. She was a lovely young woman, but if she was anything like her sister, he wanted no part of her.

  “Reminds me of you, sir, when you use your baton of of fice to good purpose. Remember the time when…” Never taking his eyes off the two men who were stick fighting,

  Sergeant Pashenuro related a tale Bak had long ago forgot ten.

  He listened with half an ear while he, too, enjoyed the bat tle. The two fighters, one representing western Waset and the other the village of Madu, swung their long wooden sticks hard and fast, pressing each other back and forth across the small space allotted them. Each series of swings and parries was broken by one man or the other leaping free and danc ing out of the way. Each brief respite ended when one or the other imagined his opponent losing his vigilance-or when the yelling onlookers grew impatient and began to boo and hiss. Sweat poured down their oiled bodies, dust rose from beneath their feet. The onlookers shouted out wagers, yelled encouragement, groaned at each perceived loss.

  “You’d do well, sir,” Pashenuro said, caught up in the bat tle. “Better than either of them. Why don’t you challenge the winner?”

  Laughing, Bak moved on. He spotted three of his Med jays watching male acrobats doing backward handsprings to the rhythm of a drummer and clapping, chanting onlookers.

  He looked on with admiration, wondering if he had ever been so agile. His eye caught a touch of color beyond their leaping bodies, the fuzzy red hair of the man to whom

  Meryamon had passed the message. The redhead scanned the crowd-looking for someone, Bak felt sure. He doubted the man would recognize him or had even seen him walking

  along the processional way, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the searching eyes slid over him as if he were not there.

  The drummer changed his cadence, a servant brought out and distributed several poles. While two of the acrobats raised one of the poles ever higher, the remainder used theirs to vault over it. The red-haired man glanced to his right and his face lit up. Bak spotted a swarthy foreign-looking man shouldering his way through the onlookers. The redhead si dled toward him, the movement inconspicuous but definite.