Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  “You were not strangers to one another.” Bak gave the

  Hittite a long, speculative look. “I believe Meryamon passed word to the red-haired man that the auditor Woserhet had been slain. He most likely mentioned that I’d noticed a sim ilarity between Woserhet’s death and that of Maruwa. The redhead, in turn, passed the word to you. Who did you pass it to, Zuwapi? Captain Antef?”

  “Antef was a man in a hurry,” Karoya said, “pressing me to allow him to sail away from Waset. At the very least, you warned him to take care.”

  Bak formed a scornful smile. “Does the red-haired man pull your strings, Zuwapi, as a child would pull a toy with movable parts?”

  The Hittite’s laugh failed to conceal his resentment at be ing called a puppet. “Have you ever thought to become a teller of tall tales, Lieutenant?”

  “Somehow I can’t imagine any of you-neither you nor

  Meryamon nor Antef-thinking of a way to safely steal from the sacred precinct. The priest was young, too un worldly to create a plan that would go on successfully for several years. Captain Antef has no direct connection with the sacred precinct and wouldn’t know how to go about it.

  You’re a foreigner who knows not the ways of the lord

  Amon and the men who toil for him. Which means someone else planned the thefts. Who, Zuwapi?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Irritated with the game the Hittite was playing, Bak sig naled Kasaya, who jerked Zuwapi’s right hand toward the furnace. “Did you take the lives of Maruwa, Meryamon, and

  Woserhet?”

  Zuwapi flung a contemptuous look at him. “You wouldn’t dare burn me. I’ve friends in the royal house in Hattusa. Do harm to me and your sovereign would hear of their objec tions in the strongest possible terms.”

  “Answer my question, Zuwapi.”

  “I’ve no answer to give you. Sir!” he added in a mocking manner.

  Bak nodded to Kasaya, who jerked the Hittite forward, pro pelling his hand into the mouth of the furnace. Sweat popped out on Zuwapi’s brow, his expression grew pained. Whether the intense heat of the coals had reached his hand or he simply feared being burned, his interrogators could not tell.

  “Did you slay Maruwa, Woserhet, and Meryamon?” Bak demanded.

  Zuwapi’s voice rose in pitch, losing its roughness. “How many times must I tell you? I’ve slain no one.”

  “If you didn’t, you surely suspected their deaths were re lated to the thefts in the sacred precinct.”

  “Not at first. Not until Meryamon was slain. Then…” He hesitated, appeared to reach a decision, said, “I didn’t know what to think.”

  Bak did not believe him for an instant. “If you didn’t slay them, you must know who did.”

  Karoya, equally skeptical, dropped his role as mediator.

  He signaled Kasaya, who shoved Zuwapi’s hand closer to the burning coals.

  “Don’t!” Sweat reeking of fear poured from the Hittite.

  “We don’t wish to maim you,” Karoya said, “but we must if you don’t tell us who took those men’s lives.”

  Kasaya shifted forward as if readying himself to shove the

  Hittite’s hand onto the coals.

  “Nehi.” Zuwapi stared into the furnace and swallowed hard. “He’s the man you saw, the one with red hair. He said he didn’t slay them, but he must’ve.” The Hittite’s eyes darted to ward Bak. “He’s the man who told me I must get rid of you.”

  “Where can we find him?” Karoya asked.

  “He toils at the harbor. He’s overseer of the men who carry newly arrived offerings from the ships to the store houses of Amon.”

  At a nod from Bak, Kasaya allowed Zuwapi to pull his hand back, but not so far that his confidence would return.

  Rubbing it as if it had truly been burned, the Hittite gave the two officers a wounded look. Bak could not sympathize. In spite of the pain inflicted upon him, he disliked acting the bully, but the quick results testified to its effectiveness.

  “Who planned the robberies?” he asked.

  Zuwapi turned morose. “I was never told, but Nehi must’ve. Either him or Meryamon.”

  Bak could not credit the young priest with so important a role. “You weren’t curious?”

  “I was.” Zuwapi spoke through gritted teeth, as if holding inside a resentment that had been building for months. “I tried many times to guess his name with no success, even tried prying the name from Nehi. I failed. He would say nothing. Nothing, I tell you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Most of the cargo vessels moored along the waterfront had arrived long before the Beautiful Feast of Opet began, al lowing plenty of time to unload before the temptations of the festival drew crews and workmen away from more serious endeavors. As a result, Bak thought it best to start their search for Nehi in the sacred precinct.

  “It can’t be true.” Nebamon, overseer of the storehouses from which many of the ritual objects had been stolen, flung a perplexed look at Bak, Karoya, and Thanuny. “Meryamon was such a nice young man, so helpful. Utterly devoted to the lord Amon.”

  “We believe he not only took objects over an extended pe riod of time, but he also altered the records to hide his wrongdoing and that of another man.” The auditor tapped a large scroll-filled basket, so heavy the servant carrying it had both arms wrapped firmly around it. “Each and every docu ment in this container has been tampered with.”

  “So many?” Nebamon gulped.

  Bak glanced at Sergeant Psuro, standing in the doorway of the small walled courtyard, barring entry or exit. He did not mistrust Nebamon, but thought it best to take precau tions lest he erred. “We believe Nehi, in his position as over seer of the workmen who carry offerings from incoming ships to the storehouses of Amon, was also making off with items meant to be used in the sacred rituals.”

  “Nehi?” Nebamon frowned, doubtful. “A most congenial man. All who know him like him.”

  “When I spoke with you several days ago, I told you of a red-haired man I saw you talking with while standing in the courtyard in front of Ipet-resyt. The opening procession had entered the sacred precinct and there you were, side by side, watching a group of Hittite acrobats. That man had to have been Nehi, yet when I asked, you denied knowing him.”

  “Did I?” Nebamon raised both hands and ran his fingers through the curly white hair above his ears. “I don’t remem ber seeing him there-the courtyard was teeming with peo ple, if you recall-but perhaps we exchanged a few trifling words.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “Come with me. We must ask the scribe who deals with these people.”

  “I should’ve guessed he dwelt here.” Bak stood outside the gate through which he and Amonked had, ten days be fore, entered the sacred precinct to view Woserhet’s body.

  He eyed the blank white walls of the interconnected houses that lay in the shadow of the massive wall surrounding the lord Amon’s domain. He remembered well chasing the red haired man through that confusing warren of narrow lanes.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  Psuro could neither read nor write, but his memory was faultless. “According to the scribe, we enter the leftmost lane, turn right at the second intersection, left at the next lane, pass beneath a wooden lintel, and turn right again at the next intersecting lane. His dwelling will be behind the fourth doorway to the right.”

  Signaling the sergeant to lead the way, Bak followed with

  Karoya. A dozen of his Medjays and an equal number of harbor patrolmen hurried after them. Upon learning where

  Nehi dwelt, he had suggested they summon extra men.

  He stopped at the lintel, while Psuro went on ahead, and gathered the men around. “You all know what you’re to do, but I must warn you.” He looked from one to another, his ex pression stern. “He knows these lanes far better than we do.

  If he runs, don’t follow him in a line like cattle being led to slaughter. Spread out into th
e surrounding lanes. We must not let him get away.”

  They melted into the shadows of a nearby lane, where they waited in silence until Psuro returned.

  “He’s home,” the sergeant reported. “Sleeping late after a night of revelry, so says an old woman in the adjoining house.”

  Bak thanked the lord Amon that they would not have to lie in wait. “Let’s go.”

  The sergeant and a dozen men hurried off to surround the block. Karoya took six others to close off the nearby lanes.

  Bak and the remainder waited. When they heard two short, sharp whistles, Psuro’s signal and Karoya’s, they strode to ward the fourth doorway to the right. They were a dozen steps away when the red-haired man stepped into the lane, yawning, scratching his head. He saw Bak, his mouth dropped open, he spun around and leaped inside. Bak plunged into the dark dwelling, glimpsed his quarry at the top of the stairs leading to the roof. Yelling to his men to spread out and watch the doors of the other houses, he raced upward.

  Nehi sped across the flat, white rooftop, leaping over bas kets and bowls; bounding over fish laid out to dry; veering around small pavilions occupied by women spinning and weaving, grinding grain, and performing innumerable other household tasks while they tended their small children. He reached the opposite side of the block, looked down into the lane, saw the men below and cried out an oath. He ran to the right and looked into a side lane. Seeing more men waiting to snare him, he slumped down onto the roof, head bowed, gasping for breath. Bak called for manacles and within mo ments Nehi was their prisoner.

  As soon as Bak got his first good look at Nehi, he knew the redhead had played no major role in the robberies. He was, like Meryamon, less than twenty years of age. “You knew Meryamon.”

  The young man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowed tears. The unexpected capture, the mere threat of burning, had completely unmanned him, turning him into the sobbing child he once had been. “We grew to manhood together. In Abedju. We were childhood playmates, the best of friends.”

  He seemed so lacking in guile, so genuine, that Bak al most sympathized with him. Almost. “The two of you stole many valuable objects from the lord Amon.”

  “We stole, yes.” Sniffing back tears, Nehi spoke out read ily, a young man eager to please men more senior in age and rank. “Each time I saw a ritual vessel or a jar of aromatic oil or anything else of value, if I could find a way to take it un seen, I did so. Meryamon took objects from the storehouses themselves, and he also altered the records so no one would know of his crime or mine.”

  “Where did you hide the items you stole?”

  “I took them to a storehouse near the waterfront. There the Hittite trader Zuwapi held the goods he meant to trans port to Ugarit and beyond. Meryamon stayed well clear, wanting no one to see him in the company of the foreigner.”

  Bak signaled Kasaya, who allowed the prisoner to scuttle backward a couple of paces away from the furnace. He wanted sufficient heat to reach the prisoner to remind him of what he faced should he fail to talk. Between the furnace, the hot breath of the lord Re reaching into the sun-baked courtyard, and the never-ending sobbing, thirst might well become a more effective threat than Nehi’s fear of burning.

  “Why did he wish to keep his distance?”

  The redhead sniffled. “He thought it best, so he said.”

  “How long have these thefts been going on?” Karoya asked.

  “About three years. A long time.”

  A buzz of voices rose beneath the lean-to, where Bak’s men and the harbor patrolmen knelt or sat in the shade. To steal a little from a god was a small sin, to steal so much for so long was horrendous.

  Thanks to the diligence of Hori and Thanuny while searching the archives, Bak was not surprised, merely puz zled. If Karoya’s expression told true, he was equally per plexed. “Meryamon dwelt within the sacred precinct and had neither property nor riches. From the appearance of your dwelling, you also are without wealth. What did the two of you gain from these robberies?”

  “Our portion was being held for us in Ugarit. There we meant to end our days in luxury.” Nehi burst into tears, his voice shook with anguish. “Now Meryamon has gone to the netherworld and I’m your prisoner, no doubt soon to die for taking what by rights belonged to the lord Amon. The end less fear of being caught, the constant expectation of wealth beyond measure. All for nothing.”

  A fitting end for men who offend the lady Maat, Bak thought, but theft, in this case, was only one of several heinous acts. “Did you slay Maruwa? The Hittite who traded in horses?”

  “No,” Nehi sobbed. “I didn’t even know the man.”

  Bak signaled Kasaya, who stepped closer to the prisoner, looming over him, more threatening than words.

  “I didn’t slay him. I swear I didn’t!”

  “What of Woserhet and Meryamon?” Karoya demanded.

  “Did you take their lives?”

  “No!” Nehi stared at the fiery embers visible within the mouth of the furnace. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. “I was appalled to hear of Woserhet’s death. I knew so vile a crime would bring the wrath of the gods upon us. And when I learned Meryamon was slain…” He could barely talk, so wracked was he by sobs. “He was my friend, closer than a brother.”

  Could a man pretend such sorrow, Bak wondered, such torment? “You dwell a short distance from the sacred precinct, with an unguarded gate close to hand. The store house where Woserhet died was less than a hundred paces beyond the gate, too close to bear thinking about. Meryamon was your friend, easy to lure to the shrine of the hearing ear, easier to sneak up behind and slit his throat.”

  “You don’t understand!” Nehi cried. “Meryamon’s death planted a fear in my heart greater than any I’ve ever before felt. I knew then that I was doomed as surely as he had been.”

  Bak glanced at Karoya, who nodded, indicating that he, too, shared Bak’s conviction that Nehi was telling the truth, or close to the truth. The redhead-and probably Meryamon as well-was as much a victim of his own greed as he was a criminal. Which made Zuwapi a liar, a man wishing to cast suspicion away from himself. Yet how could a foreigner like

  Zuwapi, a seaman like Antef, plan so successful a scheme within the sacred precinct? The more questions he asked, the more convinced Bak became that someone else altogether had led this gang of thieves. “Who planned the robberies,

  Nehi?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not Meryamon?”

  “No,” Nehi whimpered.

  Bak feigned impatience. “Do you actually know Zuwapi, or did you merely deliver the items to his storehouse?”

  “He met me there each time. He had to break the seal and unlatch the door. And only he could reseal the door after we placed the objects inside.”

  “What of Captain Antef?”

  “I learned of him by chance.” Nehi swallowed a sob. “I saw Zuwapi’s trade goods being loaded onto a ship. A blind man would’ve guessed its captain was a party to the thefts.”

  “Did you ever approach him?”

  “I dared not,” Nehi said with a shudder. “Zuwapi would’ve been furious. As would Meryamon.”

  “If you didn’t slay Maruwa or Woserhet or Meryamon…”

  “I’ve slain no one! I swear to the lord Amon!”

  “If you didn’t take those three men’s lives, who did?”

  “Zuwapi. He’d slay his own mother to gain advantage.”

  “We need more wood, sir.” Kasaya, kneeling before the furnace, was attempting to stir the fire into life. The best he could do was create a few fiery sparks that died the instant they flared.

  “We could tear down the lean-to,” Sergeant Mose said. He was shorter than Kasaya, but equally broad. His nose had been flattened by a blow sometime in the past, making him appear hard and cruel.

  Karoya scowled his disapproval. “These buildings are the property of the royal house, Sergeant. We’re accountable for their well-being.”

  “We can always use t
he cudgel, sir, or a stout stick.”

  Bak’s eyes darted around the compound, searching for an other way to intimidate the prisoners, and came to rest on the pit, a rough circle dug knee-deep into the ground, and the dried black clay at the bottom. A quick glance at the sun told him they had sufficient time. “Bring some men to break up that clay, and pour water into the pit to soften it. The threat of burning primed them to talk; with luck and the help of the gods, a fear of being smothered by mud will further their in clination to speak freely.”

  “More questions?” Antef glowered at Bak and Karoya.

  “I’ve already told you all I can. I hauled Zuwapi’s trade goods, yes, and during the last few months I’ve wondered if they might be stolen, but I had absolutely no involvement in his foul scheme.”

  Bak’s laugh was short, sharp. “You may not have been in volved up to your neck, but you were certainly immersed to your knees.”

  The captain raised his chin high and stood as tall and straight as he could. He spoke in a haughty manner. “I must return to my ship, Lieutenant, and my crew must accompany me. I’ve valuable cargo on board and I fear for its safety.”

  Choosing not to remind him that Karoya’s men had been guarding the cargo for a week, Bak asked, “Do you see that pit, Captain?”

  One of Bak’s Medjays knelt at the rim, pouring water over what had been rock-hard dirt, broken into clods that had been pounded to dust. A harbor patrolman waded around in mud well above his ankles, mixing in the water.

  Two men knelt at the edge, offering unwanted advice. A dozen or so others stood around, joking, teasing their less fortunate companion.

  Antef stared, puzzled.

  “We’ve run out of fuel for the kiln,” Bak explained, “but we thought you might like a mud bath-beginning with your head.”

  The captain sucked in his breath and took a quick step back. “You can’t do that to me. I’m a respectable man. I’ll complain to the harbormaster.”

  “I suggest you answer our questions, sir,” Karoya said. As before, his demeanor was far kinder than Bak’s. “Each hour that passes makes you look more guilty in our eyes, and so the harbormaster will believe.”