Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  “Thus he was brought back to Kemet and someone else was sent to Hattusa in his place.” Bak rubbed the spot on his arm where the mosquito had been, rousing the itch. “Was the traitor ever identified?”

  “As the activity stopped upon Pentu’s recall, the investi gation was dropped.”

  “Perhaps it shouldn’t have been.” Bak flung a wry smile at

  Karoya. “Pentu and the members of his household arrived in

  Waset a few hours before Maruwa was slain. They’re still here and will remain throughout the festival.”

  Amonked’s mouth tightened. “Pentu may be overly trust 134

  Lauren Haney ing, but he’d not involve himself in the politics of another land. Nor would he kill, not even to silence a man capable of spreading a tale that would besmirch his character.”

  “My hands are tied, sir, because men who might help me are fully occupied with the Opet rituals. Must I also be blinded because I dare not approach a man as lofty as

  Pentu?” Bak knew he should have exercised more tact, but he thought Amonked a good enough friend to overlook the impertinence.

  Amonked glared at the sentry kneeling in front of the main gate to the sacred precinct, scratching the belly of a black puppy. “I’ll speak with the vizier.” Forgiving Bak with a humorless smile, he grumbled, “He may wish you to reex amine the incident.”

  So saying, he strode across the platform and up the path toward Ipet-isut. Bak, praying he had not leaped into waters too deep and swift to navigate, followed with Karoya. The young Medjay officer looked vastly relieved that he was not the man who might have to tread on such noble and lofty toes as those of a provincial governor.

  “Is the ship on which Maruwa was slain still moored at the harbor?” Bak asked.

  “It is, but not for long. Captain Antef came to me yester day, saying he wishes to set sail tomorrow. I saw no reason to hold him.”

  “Tomorrow? Midway through the Beautiful Feast of

  Opet?”

  “Since unloading the horses, he’s taken on a new cargo.

  He has a long voyage ahead of him, all the way to Ugarit, and carries objects that must be transported overland before winter falls.”

  “What difference would five or six days make when the length of the voyage can vary greatly, depending upon the weather?” Bak raised his baton of office, saluting the sentry, who had shot to his feet the instant he noticed their approach. The puppy sat on its haunches, looking up at the man, crying. Bak followed his companions through the gate that opened into the limestone court in front of Ipet-isut.

  “Sir,” he said to Amonked, “will you send an official order to the harbormaster? I wish Captain Antef’s ship to be de tained, its cargo guarded so nothing can be moved.”

  “I resent being held here, Lieutenant.” Antef, standing in front of the forecastle of his ship, glared at Bak. “Must I be made to suffer merely because I had the misfortune of hav ing a man murdered on my vessel?”

  “I’d think you’d look upon Maruwa as the unfortunate one.”

  “I do. Of course I do.” The captain’s breast swelled with indignation. “Nonetheless, I should not be required to re main in Waset. I know nothing of his death except what I saw the day you found him.”

  Bak stood with his back against the angle of the prow, looking the length of the deck, which appeared much differ ent from the last time he had been aboard. The mat walls of the deckhouse had been raised, allowing him to see all the way to the stern. The stalls had been removed, the piles of hay and bags of grain had been carried off, and the wooden flooring was so clean it glowed. Baskets and bundles and chests were stowed everywhere, not a large cargo, but enough, he assumed, to make an extended voyage worth while. Most of the crew had gone ashore. The two who re mained were toiling near the mast, talking together with the amity of men who have shared their tasks for months. When they believed themselves unobserved, they sneaked glances at Bak.

  “You said at the time he may’ve been involved in Hittite politics. Do you know for a fact that he was?”

  “A guess, that’s all.” Antef glanced around as if looking for something to sit on. Evidently the mounds of cargo lashed to the deck did not appeal, for he remained standing.

  “A logical assumption. During all my voyages north, I’ve never seen a more bloodthirsty nation.”

  “How often have you traveled in the land of Hatti?”

  “Well… Never,” Antef admitted reluctantly. “But I’ve met many a man from there, and they’re all alike.”

  Bak kept his expression bland, concealing his irritation with such generalities. “I’ve been told Maruwa was a fine man. Good-natured, hardworking, honest to a fault.”

  Antef flushed. “He was different from the rest. A bit se cretive, but otherwise a good, cheerful companion on a long voyage. He cared for those horses he shipped as if they were beloved children. I know they were valuable, but still…”

  The ship rocked beneath their feet, making the fittings creak, and the hull bumped hard against the mudbank beside which it was moored. One of the sailors, climbing up the mast, clung for his life and snapped out a chain of filthy oaths. The man seated on the deck below, unsnarling a tan gle of ropes, laughed heartily.

  “Had you known him long?” Bak asked.

  “Five years, maybe six.”

  “Did he always transport the horses on your ship? Or did he use other vessels when this one wasn’t available?”

  “Not many cargo ships are stable enough or have enough deck space to carry the numbers of animals he brought regu larly to Kemet. He knew of us all, and he used whichever vessel he found in Ugarit when he arrived. Or whichever was the first to reach that port if we all happened to be at sea.”

  “What of his return journeys?”

  “I’m quick to set sail-as are all of us who earn our bread on the water-and he usually stayed longer. Traveling alone, with no horses to transport, the size of the ship was of no im port. He could leave at any time on any vessel that happened to be sailing northward.”

  Bak left the prow and walked slowly down the deck, look ing at baskets and bundles as he passed them by, reading la bels on the closed containers. Antef hurried after him like a mother goose concerned for her goslings. The cargo was di verse: the roughest of pottery and earthenware of a mediocre quality, leather goods, sheep skins, rough linen and fabric of a slightly higher quality, wine from a vineyard he had never heard of, strings of beads and other bright jewelry of small value. Scattered among these very ordinary trade items were bundles and baskets identified by their labels as containing finer goods. They appeared to have come from provincial es tates, although some had labels with ink so smeared they were illegible. Luxury items made within the household to be traded for a profit. Or so they seemed.

  “Did you know Maruwa kept a woman in Waset?” Bak asked.

  On a woven reed chest, he spotted a label he could not read: a flat chunk of dried mud tied to the handle, the sym bols scrawled and indecipherable. He knelt before the con tainer, broke the seal, and released the cord securing the lid.

  Ignoring Antef’s shocked gasp, he looked inside. The chest was filled to the brim with fine linen.

  “Damaged goods,” Antef hastened to tell him. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  Bak read the tags on the surrounding containers and words inked on the shoulders of pottery jars. He found noth ing unusual or suspicious. Except the captain standing be side him, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the silence-or with Bak’s interest in his cargo.

  “I knew he had a woman,” Antef said. “He never spoke of her, but the members of my crew would see them together in the market here or in the foreign quarter.”

  Bak walked a few paces farther along the deck. Amid a stack of baskets, he spotted one labeled as having come from a provincial estate located considerably closer to Men nufer than to Waset. The nobleman might have brought the items south to trade in the teeming festival market, but the large port a
nd market at Mennufer offered infinitely more possibilities for exchange.

  Breaking the seal, he snapped the cord securing the lid and peered inside.

  “Sir!” Antef exclaimed. “You can’t do that! The merchant who entrusted me with these items will hold me personally responsible.”

  The basket held a dozen or more bronze cups and pitch ers. The linen might truly have been damaged goods, but these small, fine objects clearly were not. They had to be destined for the home of a wealthy nobleman or for the royal house of some far-off king.

  “Send him to me or to Lieutenant Karoya. We’d be glad to explain our authority.”

  Antef opened his mouth to object, but Bak’s cold stare si lenced him. They walked on, passing the sailor at the base of the mast. The man was toying with the ropes, acting busy, but the tangle had been unsnarled. Bak glanced upward, caught the man above leaning out from the masthead, star ing. The sailor pulled back and busied himself with a fitting.

  Wondering how much the crew knew about the goods the vessel carried, Bak peered beneath the roof of the deckhouse.

  Inside were the captain’s rolled sleeping pallet, a basket of personal items, and a few baskets of foodstuffs gathered for the coming voyage. One basket, so the label said, contained small bronze tools: harpoon heads, knives, needles, and so on. These were no doubt for daily shipboard use. Another, larger basket had no label at all. He broke the seal and cord, glanced at Antef. The captain was sweating profusely.

  Bak lifted the lid and found ten or twelve small jars. They were unmarked, but he had seen enough during the several years he had conducted inspections at Buhen to guess that they held aromatic oils. Definitely not an ordinary trade item. A product much coveted by the wives and concubines of foreign kings. “This is your property, Captain?”

  “No, sir.” Antef wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It belongs to the merchant whose goods I’m to deliver to Ugarit. He asked me to keep that bas ket out of the sun. Other than in the hold, where else could I stow it but here?”

  “Are you transporting goods for only the one merchant, or for other men as well?”

  “Just Zuwapi.”

  Bak was not surprised by the captain’s easy revelation of the merchant’s identity. The name would be on the ship’s manifest and registered in the customs office. “A Hittite, if his name tells true.”

  “Yes, sir. A highly respectable man, so I’ve been told.”

  “Was he acquainted with Maruwa?”

  “That I can’t say. He’s not as amiable as Maruwa was, so

  I’d guess not.”

  Bak was skeptical. The number of Hittites in Waset was small. “I must speak with him. Where can I find him?”

  “He dwells in Mennufer and journeys often to Ugarit.”

  Antef bared his teeth in a tenuous smile. “Where he is now, I can’t tell you.”

  Bak muttered an oath. “If he’s not here in Waset, who sees that his cargo is properly loaded?”

  “I do, sir. He sends me a list of what I’m to transport, and

  I check off the items as they’re delivered to me.”

  “He must be a trusting soul.”

  “I’ve carried his trade goods for years, and I’ve never once failed to deliver each and every object to the port of his choice.” Antef stepped into Bak’s path so he could walk no farther along the deck. “Sir! You must speak up for me to the harbormaster. He must release my ship. I’ve goods on board that I must deliver to Ugarit for shipment by donkey train to cities farther inland.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  The promise was empty. Bak had no intention of letting the ship leave the harbor. The more valuable of the goods he had seen might well have come from a storehouse of the lord

  Amon.

  The lord Re was hovering above the western horizon when Bak walked into yet another open plot of ground con taining a well and a grove of date palms. This was the fifth well he had found in his thus far vain search for Maruwa’s concubine. The smell of burning fuel and the odors of foods being cooked for the evening meal wafted through the air, reminding him that another treat awaited him at his Med jays’ quarters, food gleaned by Pashenuro from the daily re version of offerings.

  At the apex of the irregular triangle of scruffy grass was a well encircled by a wall, while a healthy grove of date palms filled the opposite end. Several acacias grew in a clump near the well, shading a mudbrick bench. Two women sat there, chatting with five others. One of those who stood balanced a large water jar on her head, while the others supported simi lar jars on their hips. Two jars stood at the feet of the women occupying the bench.

  The woman holding the jar on her head noticed Bak, mur mured something to her friends, and they stopped talking to stare as he approached them.

  “I’m Lieutenant Bak. I’m looking for a woman who may dwell nearby.” He kept his expression grave, hoping to dis courage light conversation and questions. “I must speak with her of a matter of note. A very serious matter.”

  A young woman holding a jar on her hip flashed bold eyes at him. “Her name, sir?”

  “Irenena.”

  “The Hittite’s woman,” she said, exchanging a look with the others.

  “What do you need of her?” a seated woman asked.

  “Has she not had enough unhappiness?” the woman with the jar on her head asked. “Must you give her more?”

  “Leave her be,” another woman said. “Let her mourn her loss in peace.”

  He raised a hand, silencing them. “I’m seeking the man who took the Hittite’s life. With luck she can help me lay hands on him.”

  Again the women looked at one another, sharing a thought. The oldest in the crowd spoke for them all:

  “She’d want to see his slayer punished. I’ll take you to her.”

  “They’ve been very kind to me.” Irenena stood beneath the pavilion on the rooftop outside her small home, looking down at the well and the women disappearing into several lanes leading to their dwellings. “I feared when I learned of his death they would turn their backs, thinking me the whore of a vile foreigner, left alone and helpless. But no. They knew I loved him and he loved me, and they respect that.”

  “You’ve dwelt here long?” Bak asked.

  “Maruwa brought me here almost ten years ago.”

  The view below was most attractive, one few city dwellings offered. The dusty green of the trees, the white plastered wall around the well, and the white dwellings en closing the open area were softened by the late evening light. A yellow cat lapped water from a bowl left by some anonymous donor, while her kittens played hide and seek in the grass. A woman on the rooftop across the way crooned a song of love to her baby.

  “May I offer you a jar of beer, Lieutenant?”

  He accepted and followed her into the home she had made for herself and Maruwa. Her dwelling, in reality the second story of the building, consisted of a large room for living and sleeping, a tiny room for storage, and a kitchen with an open roof covered by loosely spread dry brush that would provide some shade and let out the smoke. The furnishings were sparse but of considerable value, many of the pillow covers, floor mats, and wall hangings imported from the northern lands through which Maruwa had traveled.

  While she placed sweetcakes on a flat dish, he studied the comfortable room and the woman herself. Small and sturdy, she had dark hair sprinkled with white, and her round face was no longer youthful. Maruwa must surely have loved her as a wife, a woman to share his time with through eternity, not one to take and throw away.

  “Shall we sit on the roof?” she asked. “The breeze is al ways lovely at this time of day.”

  Following her outside, he said, “Before you came here, where did you dwell?”

  She raised her chin and her voice took on a note of defi ance. “I was not what you think, sir. I was a respectable woman, a widow. A burden to my eldest brother, a servant to his wife. When Maruwa said he wanted me, I accepted his offe
r gladly. A rash move, perhaps, a situation that could have ended as rapidly as it began, with me impoverished and alone. Instead our love grew and now here I am, a widow in my heart if not in reality. Unlike before, Maruwa left me suf ficient means to take care of myself.”

  “I meant no offense, mistress. I’ve been told he usually re mained in Waset long after he delivered his horses to the royal stables.” Bak allowed a smile to touch his lips. “I doubted he stayed behind for the animals’ sake, nor would he have been long detained by a plaything.”

  The rigidity went out of her stance, and she mirrored his smile. “Will you sit with me, sir?” she asked, nodding to ward a reed mat spread out beneath the pavilion.

  After he complied, she set the cakes beside him and of fered a jar of beer. The breeze, as she had predicted, wafted gently across the rooftop, bringing with it the scent of flow ers.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, seating herself on the opposite side of the bowl. “I wish justice done, punishment for my beloved’s slayer while still he lives as well as in the netherworld.”

  Bak took a drink of beer, savoring the warm, rather thick but tasty brew. “Was Maruwa involved in Hittite politics?”

  He no longer believed the merchant would have become so foolishly embroiled, but of all the people he had talked to, she would know best.

  “What on earth gave you that idea? He was the least po litical man I’ve ever met.”

  “Did he ever speak of the politics of Kemet, of our two sovereigns, one seated on the throne at Waset and the other occupying the royal house in Mennufer?”

  “He thought the situation odd, but who doesn’t? Espe cially men and women from other lands, places where life is harsher and kingship more precarious.” She must have real ized he wished her to be more specific and shook her head.

  “No, sir, he showed no more concern with the affairs of

  Kemet than with those of his homeland.”

  “On the day he died, I’ve been told, he never left the ves sel on which he brought the horses. Most of the sailors dis embarked, as did the captain, but he chose to remain on board with the animals.”