Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

  Bak motioned Mose to usher Antef to the pit. The sergeant was not as tall as Kasaya, but his uncompromising demeanor was more intimidating. The captain struggled to break free, but Mose’s strength prevailed. The men around the pit moved out of their way, and soon they stood at the edge. Antef looked downward, his expression one of distaste and dread.

  “What do you know of the other men involved in the thefts?” Bak asked.

  “I did business with Zuwapi, no one else.”

  “You didn’t know the priest Meryamon or his friend

  Nehi?”

  “As far as I know, I never met either man.”

  Karoya queried Bak with a glance. The more senior of the two nodded, and the younger officer hurried across the yard to disappear around the corner of the house, behind which lay the servants’ quarters.

  At a command from Mose, the man in the pit scrambled out.

  “Do you know the man who planned the thefts?” Bak asked. “The one who pulled the strings that made the other men dance?”

  “Zuwapi did.”

  Bak raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words, no. He was a prosperous mer chant, well placed in Hattusa, so I just assumed…” The words tailed off, doubt crept into Antef’s voice. “He did at times take a day or two to answer my questions. Too long, I thought, but…” He gave Bak a sharp look. “He was no more than a tool, as I was?”

  “I don’t know,” Bak admitted, but deep down inside the suspicion hardened that someone other than the men he had snared had planned the robberies and issued the orders.

  Karoya, holding Nehi by the arm, came around the corner of the dwelling. Bak watched Antef closely. The captain looked toward the redhead but gave no sign of recognition.

  A patrolman appeared and took the prisoner back around the house. As Karoya approached across the yard, he shook his head, verifying Bak’s impression that Nehi had failed to rec ognize the seaman.

  “Let’s speak again of Maruwa,” Bak said to the captain.

  “How many times must I tell you? I know nothing of his death!”

  “How certain are you that he didn’t notice the stolen ob jects mixed in with the rest of Zuwapi’s cargo?”

  Antef spoke as if Bak were trying his patience. “He was as transparent as rainwater, Lieutenant, and as trusting. If he’d grown suspicious, the first thing he’d have done is come to me and tell me.”

  “He wouldn’t have thought you guilty?”

  “Why would he? The goods belonged to Zuwapi, not me.”

  “If he’s telling the truth-and I believe he is,” Bak said,

  “he’d have had no reason to slay Maruwa.”

  Karoya, seated on the lower, furnace portion of a dormant kiln, looked ruefully toward the stable, where Antef had been taken. “I hate to think him innocent of all but smuggling.”

  Bak took a careful drink from his beer jar, trying not to stir up the sediment. “Zuwapi also claims Maruwa noticed nothing.”

  “If the man was as blind to the smuggling as they say, why was he slain?”

  “I’ve slain no one!” Zuwapi stood in the pit, his feet and ankles buried in mud. Mose’s big hand gripped his neck, ready to shove him onto his knees.

  Bak was not sure how seriously the Hittite took the threat, but he was fully prepared to prove to him how frightening immersion would be. “One of your partners in crime says you did.”

  “Who? Antef?” The Hittite spat on the ground to show his contempt, whether for Bak or the captain was unclear. “He’s a liar. A liar and a sneak.” His expression grew sly. “I say you look at him. I’d not be surprised if he took their lives.”

  “He’s told us he dealt solely with you, Zuwapi, and he had no knowledge of the men who stole the objects.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to know them,” Zuwapi admitted,

  “but he may’ve followed me, thinking to cut me out, to elim inate me as the man between.”

  “You said before that you thought Nehi slew those men,”

  Karoya reminded him.

  “Did I?” Zuwapi lifted a foot, making a sucking sound in the mud. It was too runny to form into pots, but thick enough for Bak’s purpose. “He could have. He gives an impression of being weak, but he’d not be the first nor will he be the last to avoid a fight or suitable punishment by denying an accu sation-or pointing a finger at someone else.”

  The Hittite would blame Maatkare Hatshepsut herself,

  Bak thought, if he believed he could make himself appear innocent. “Why would you wish Maruwa dead, Zuwapi?”

  “You tell me.”

  Bak nodded to Mose, who struck the Hittite in the stom ach, forcing a whoosh of air from his mouth, and shoved his head toward the mud.

  “No!” Zuwapi struggled like a snared snake. “You’ll smother me!”

  “Answer my question,” Bak said.

  “How can I? I didn’t slay him!” Mose eased the pressure slightly, allowing the Hittite to stand half bent over. “Antef swore he was too interested in the horses to pay attention to the rest of the cargo, and I believed him. If he’d thought oth erwise, I’d have spotted the lie.”

  “If the three deaths weren’t so much alike, I’d have looked to Meryamon as Woserhet’s slayer. But since he was among the slain…” Bak let the words tail off as if he had been thinking aloud. “Who do you believe took Meryamon’s life?”

  “Nehi.”

  “Not another man? One stronger than any of you-and smarter? One who planned the robberies?”

  Zuwapi stared at his interrogator, thinking hard, and a slow understanding crept onto his face. He muttered an oath in his own tongue. “One who’s cut himself off from us, you mean. Severing all ties, thinking we’ll take the blame while he…”

  “Reaps the profits?” Bak laughed, as if he enjoyed the irony. “Who is he, Zuwapi?”

  “I wish I knew,” the Hittite growled through gritted teeth.

  “Are you going to allow him to walk away free and clear, leaving you and the others as sacrificial goats?”

  “Believe me, if I knew his name, I’d tell you.”

  “Oh, yes, I believe him.” Bak accepted a beer jar from

  Psuro and broke out the plug. “He was too angry to lie, and can you blame him? While he and the others are put to death or suffer the hardships of a desert mine, a man no one seems to know will gain great wealth.”

  “I fear we’ve reached a dead end, sir.” Karoya, looking glum, sat down on a low stool beneath the lean-to, took an open jar from Mose, and sipped from it. “If none of them knows who their leader was after three or more years, how can we hope to lay hands on him?”

  “You told us Meryamon stayed away from Zuwapi’s storehouse,” Bak said. “Why was that?”

  Nehi stood a couple of paces from the pit with Mose. The threat was obviously unnecessary. From the way his shoul ders slumped, the distraught look on his face, anyone could see that he had no will to resist. “He wanted never to be seen with the trader.”

  “In other words, you served as the intermediary between

  Meryamon and Zuwapi. You knew of Antef, though you weren’t supposed to.”

  Nehi hung his head, nodded.

  “Zuwapi, in turn, served as the intermediary between you and Antef.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see,” Bak said, and indeed he did. The gang had been set up as a chain, with Meryamon dealing solely with Nehi who dealt with Zuwapi, who in turn dealt with Antef. “I thought at first that Zuwapi was the key man in this little group of robbers and smugglers. Instead…”

  Nehi, staring at the ground beneath his feet, shook his head. “As far as I know, he served no purpose other than to take the objects I gave him and trade them to men far to the north.”

  Bak caught the young man’s chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who planned the robberies,

  Nehi? You? Have you led us to believe you’re a simple thief when in fact you’re
the head of the gang?” The charge was ridiculous, but he had somehow to get Nehi to verify his suspicions.

  “Me?” Nehi looked startled. “I’ve stolen objects from the lord Amon, I freely admit, but it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “Meryamon’s,” he whispered.

  Bak shoved the young man’s head higher, forcing him to stand on his toes. “It’s easy to blame a dead man.”

  “I swear by all the gods! He told me what they planned to do and suggested I help. He spoke of immense wealth and a life of luxury in Ugarit or some other distant land.” Nehi be gan to sob. “Now look what I have. A promise of death for stealing from the god.”

  “Zuwapi said the order to slay me came from you.”

  Nehi gaped, stuttered, “I didn’t…” A sudden thought struck; shock registered on his face. “Oh, no!”

  “What?” Bak demanded.

  “I sometimes passed messages to him, sealed scrolls

  Meryamon gave me.”

  “Earlier you used the word ‘they.’ Did Meryamon plan the robberies and smuggling, or did someone else lead the gang from afar?”

  “Meryamon was a priest, nothing more. What would he know of transporting items of value out of the land of Kemet, of trading such fine objects to men in faraway lands, men willing to pay dearly for them?”

  Exchanging a satisfied glance with Karoya, Bak released

  Nehi’s chin. “The one who planned the thefts, then, was an other man. He was your leader, was he not?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nehi spoke so softly Bak could barely hear.

  “Who is he?”

  Nehi stared at the ground, mumbled, “Only Meryamon knew his name.”

  “And now your friend is dead.”

  Tears spilled from Nehi’s eyes, he nodded.

  “If you don’t know who this leader of yours was, and

  Zuwapi and Antef don’t either, how will you contact him?”

  Nehi tried to meet Bak’s eyes but failed. “I guess he’ll contact us.”

  His lack of conviction made a lie of the words. He knew as well as Bak that the man had no intention of making him self known. He had slain Meryamon to break the chain, thereby assuring his safety forevermore.

  Bak and Psuro walked through the gathering darkness along lanes crowded with men, women, and children, all making merry on this final night of the festival. Their Med jays had gone off with Karoya and the harbor patrolmen to escort the prisoners to the Great Prison of Waset, where they would be held until they stood before the vizier. After judg ment they would return to the prison to await punishment.

  “Where are you to meet our men, Psuro?” Bak asked.

  “In front of Ipet-resyt. They won’t be long, I’m certain.”

  The sergeant stopped in the intersection where they must part company. A soldier stood there, holding high a flaming torch, keeping a wary eye on the people passing by, all talk ing and laughing, happy and excited. “Are you sure you can’t come with me, sir? You’ve earned a night of revelry.”

  “I must report to Amonked, tell him of today’s events.”

  Bak nudged Psuro, and they stepped out of the way of a half dozen sailors, sauntering arm in arm with no regard for any one in their path. “Early tomorrow, before the festivities be gin in earnest, I must go to Pentu’s dwelling and point a finger at the one who became involved in the politics of

  Hatti. Amonked must be told what I mean to say.”

  “Will you not join us after you leave him, sir?”

  “I’d like to, but no.” Bak laid a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “I must go somewhere to be alone and think.

  Something nags at me. Bits of information, statements made that slip away each time I feel them close.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?” Pentu, seated in his armchair on the dais in his spacious audience hall, tried very hard to form a welcoming smile. “Especially at so early an hour.”

  Amonked did not return the smile. “We wished to speak with you, you and the members of your household. We knew if we came later, we’d not find you home.”

  From Pentu’s appearance, they had caught him dressing in his festival best. He wore a calf-length kilt of fine linen and his eyes were painted, but he had not yet adorned him self with jewelry and wig. Like innumerable other people in

  Waset, he and his retinue were readying themselves for the short walk to Ipet-resyt. There they would watch the lord

  Amon leave his southern mansion and make his way to the waterfront, where he would board the sacred barge and sail north to Ipet-isut, thereby culminating the Beautiful Feast of

  Opet.

  “Your presence is always a pleasure,” Pentu said, “but we’ll be far better prepared to receive you later, after the day’s festivities end.”

  “Frankly, Pentu, the word ‘pleasure’ does not apply.”

  Amonked glanced at Bak. “My young friend can explain.”

  A female servant, arranging flowers in a large bowl on the dais, noted his peremptory tone and glanced up at her mas ter. Pentu’s expression was stormy, his body as tense as a

  tautly pulled bowstring. Sensing an impending crisis, she rose quickly to her feet. She dropped a blossom, stepped on it in her haste to leave, and departed. The sweet scent of the crushed flower filled the air.

  The governor scowled at Bak. “I can’t imagine why you’ve come again, Lieutenant. I thought we were rid of you.”

  “I told Bak he wouldn’t need my authority. I believed you to be a fair and courteous man.” Amonked’s voice sharp ened. “It seems I erred.”

  Pentu flushed at the rebuke.

  “We’ve come to reveal the name of the one who brought about your recall from Hattusa,” Bak said.

  “Now look here, young man…”

  Amonked raised a hand, silencing him. “I’ve taken the liberty of summoning the members of your household. As soon as they arrive, we’ll begin.”

  In less serious circumstances, Bak might have smiled.

  Normally unassuming in appearance and behavior,

  Amonked could don a cloak of power as easily as his cousin,

  Maatkare Hatshepsut, should the need arise. “We’ll not keep you long, sir. What I have to reveal is easily explained.”

  “Governor Pentu has all along denied that any member of this household would foment trouble in the land of Hatti.”

  Bak, standing with Amonked beside the dais, glanced at

  Pentu, who occupied the sole chair on the raised platform.

  The governor stared straight forward in stony silence, one hand clutching his long staff of office, the other the arm of his chair. “His refusal to believe in spite of the fact that our pres ent envoy to Hattusa verified the accusation was one of sev eral factors I considered when thinking over the problem.”

  Bak eyed the three men-Sitepehu, Netermose, and

  Pahure-standing before the dais, and Taharet and Meret, seated side by side on low stools. All but the priest had been interrupted in various stages of adorning themselves for the

  festival. Sitepehu, who had to rise early to make the morning offerings to the lord Inheret, wore the full-length kilt, jew elry, and robe of his priesthood; his shaven head gleamed in the light streaming down from a high window. Netermose, who had barely begun to dress, wore nothing but a knee length kilt and broad multicolored collar. Pahure wore a long kilt, broad collar, and bracelets, but had not applied eye paint or donned a wig.

  Both women wore lovely white sheaths of the finest linen, but there the resemblance ended. Meret was fully groomed, bewigged, and bejeweled, ready to leave the house. Taharet was partially made up and her hair hastily combed. She wore no jewelry. She had obviously been caught unprepared for guests-or for the necessary accusa tions. Her discomfort at having to show herself when not looking her best was apparent, a gift from the gods Bak had not expected.

  “Of more significance,” he went on, “was
mistress

  Taharet’s sudden disapproval of me and her refusal to allow me to speak with mistress Meret.”

  “You’re a common soldier,” Taharet said, her nose high in the air. “Unworthy of my sister.” She was clearly annoyed at not being provided with a chair beside her husband, a po sition of honor due to the mistress of the house. A momen tary oversight on Pentu’s part that Bak and Amonked had reinforced by suggesting stools for the women.

  “So you would have me believe,” Bak said, bowing his head in mock deference.

  She opened her mouth as if to reply, but Meret took her hand and squeezed it, cutting off whatever she meant to say.

  “The men of the household all expressed a healthy respect for the violence and cruelty of Hittite vengeance. Taharet and Meret, on the other hand, offered no comments about the Hittites’ brutality even though they spoke the tongue of

  Hatti, associated with the people of that wretched land, and had to have had a knowledge of its ways.”

  Pentu’s mouth tightened. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Lieutenant.” He did not raise his voice, but none who heard him could miss the ominous tone.

  “Am I?” Bak asked, directing the question at the two women.

  “My wife is a fine woman, above reproach, and so is her sister. To accuse either of them of wrongdoing is an affront

  I’ll not tolerate.”

  That Pentu feared his wife was the guilty party, Bak had no doubt. “I accuse one of becoming involved in the politics of the land of Hatti. How deeply embroiled the other was, I hope to discover. At the very least, she maintained a silence that brought about your recall from Hattusa.”

  Sitepehu sucked in his breath. Pahure muttered a curse.

  Netermose took a quick step forward as if to come to some one’s aid. Who he should help he seemed not to know, for he looked uncertainly from Pentu to the women and back again.

  The governor slammed a fist on the arm of his chair, star tling everyone. “The charge is false!”

  Bak studied the women, Taharet staring back defiantly,

  Meret sitting demurely, one hand in her lap, the other hold ing her sister’s hand, despair clouding her face. His heart ached for her, but he could do nothing to ease her anguish.