by Lauren Haney
“I don’t know what to think,” Bak admitted.
Her laugh held no humor. “My husband said you were a man who spoke his thoughts.”
Bak could find no appropriate response.
“Are you as honest in deeds as words?” she asked.
“I try to be,” he said stiffly.
She studied him for some time. “You were sent here in disgrace, I know, and my husband was prepared to dislike you. After he met you, talked with you, he thought you a man he could depend upon and, more important, trust.” She glanced at Lupaki. “Since I have no better alternative, I must trust you, too.”
Lupaki shook his head vehemently and rattled off a few unintelligible words, but Azzia ignored him. “First, lest you hear it from another’s lips, I must tell you…” She hesitated, then took a deep breath as if to draw strength from the air. “When my husband spoke of the problem he must face, I urged him to share his burden. He refused, insisting it was his alone. I…I accused him of taking on all the problems of the world with no thought of those around him. And we quarreled.”
A wan smile failed to steal the haunted look from her eyes. “Later, when I found him struck down, he seemed to have forgotten our harsh words, but I doubt I’ll ever forget, nor forgive myself.”
She turned to a small ivory inlaid chest, which had not been there earlier, and hurried on before Bak could comment or even sort out his thoughts. “I found something in my bedchamber, something my husband must’ve left there before…before his life was taken.”
She raised the lid. Nesting among combs, perfume jars, cosmetic containers, and a bronze mirror were a roll of papyrus and a rectangular slab of metal. The scroll was bound with cord but its seal was broken. The rough slab was six fingers’ breadth by three, and half a finger’s breadth thick. Bak was sure it was gold, the flesh of the lord Re.
He stared, unable to speak. Unworked gold was the exclusive property of the royal house, of Maatkare Hatshepsut herself. In Buhen, where the precious ore was received from the mines and melted down to ingots before its shipment to the capital, where temptation was ever-present, no man, not even the commandant, had the right to possess it.
Chapter Three
“You can’t keep this to yourself!” Imsiba glared at his friend. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life working in the mines? Or lose your nose and ears?”
Bak forced a semblance of a smile. “I could flee to a faraway land, as Nakht fled to Hatti when he was falsely accused of treason.”
The sergeant laughed derisively. “He lived in Mennufer then, near the routes to the north, where the land is fertile and the villagers and herdsmen live and act as civilized men. You’re in Buhen, with desert on all sides, a land peopled by men who live in hovels. Would you cross the barren sands by yourself? Would you choose a hovel for your home?”
Following his shadow away from the torch mounted beside the door, Bak paced the length of the small, plain whitewashed room. Imsiba dropped onto one of two low stools setting between a small table and an oblong rush basket brimming with scrolls. Shields, spears, and other weapons of war were stacked against the wall by an open stairway leading to the roof. The tools of their scribe Hori’s trade-writing implements, paint and water pots, a neat stack of papyri-lay on the floor at the far end of the room. One door, closed for privacy, led outside to a narrow lane. Two others opened to Bak’s bedchamber and Hori’s. In addition to a sleeping pallet, Bak’s room contained two plain woven reed chests, one for clothing, the other for bed linen, and a small box for toiletries. Hori’s chamber was equally spare. Although modest, the house was clean and comfortable.
“No,” he admitted, “a hovel would not please me at all.”
“Then take the gold with you when you report to the steward Tetynefer. He holds the power in Buhen now; let him decide what to do.”
“I can’t throw her to the crocodiles, Imsiba!”
“You’ve been exiled to Buhen by no less an individual than our sovereign. Do you wish to add to your offenses in her eyes?”
A stubborn look settled on Bak’s face. “She exiled me, yes, but she surely knew I did what any responsible officer would do: I stood at the head of my men when they needed me. The lieutenant who took me before the vizier, the one whose Medjay police broke up the fight, swore we were in the right and the other men had been cheating.”
“The man you struck was the son of a provincial governor, his firstborn and favorite. You broke his nose and knocked out some teeth. He’ll never again be thought handsome.”
“Nonetheless…”
“You and the others in your chariotry company swept through that house of pleasure like wild bulls chased by jackals through an outdoor market. The end result was the same: total devastation. That establishment was frequented by some of the highest men in the land. The man who owns the building is a ranking priest, responsible for all food offerings in the mansion of the lord Amon. The man who pulls the strings of the old scoundrel who ran the place is one of the wealthiest merchants in Kemet.”
“I know, but…”
“Who carries more weight with our sovereign, Bak? Men of influence who support her hold on the throne? Or you?”
“She’s the earthly daughter of the lord Amon, the greatest of the gods. You’d think she’d have no need to bribe men like them for favors.”
Imsiba gave him a disgusted look. “You know better than that, my friend.”
Grudgingly, Bak admitted, “She wrested the power from Menkheperre Thutmose while still he was a babe. She’ll not give it back until she must.”
Menkheperre Thutmose was Maatkare Hatshepsut’s nephew and stepson. As a small child, he had inherited the throne from his father. His aunt, acting as regent, had wrested the power from him and named herself king. Many men believed the youth, now fourteen years of age, the rightful heir to the throne. Barely a man, he was rebuilding the army into a loyal and capable fighting force. If, or more likely when, he chose to take the throne for himself alone, Maatkare Hatshepsut would fall and so would the men around her.
Bak stopped before the second stool and frowned at the thin slab of gold lying on the seat with the rolled papyrus. “If I give this ingot to Tetynefer, he’ll send Azzia to Ma’am, where the viceroy will be certain to judge her guilty of murder.”
“And theft.”
“How would a woman who spends her days caring for a house lay her hands on unworked gold?” Bak shook his head impatiently. “No, she didn’t steal it. Someone else did, someone close to her. Commandant Nakht, the viceroy will say. He’ll be assumed guilty and labeled a thief in spite of the fact that this, I’m convinced, was the wrong he fully intended to right when he spoke to me.”
“You’d sacrifice the rest of your life to protect Nakht’s good name? You didn’t even know the man.” Imsiba studied Bak long and hard, as if searching deep in his soul. “Is it the woman, my friend? Has she addled your wits?”
“No, Imsiba.” Bak smiled ruefully. “The fire in my groin is but a dull ember. So it will remain. I have no intention of allowing the flames of desire, and the smoke that goes with them, to cloud my judgment.”
Imsiba’s laugh eased the tension between them.
“Come,” Bak said.
He scooped up the gold and the scroll and carried them into his bedchamber. The sergeant, looking puzzled, hauled himself off the stool and followed. Bak shoved his sleeping pallet aside. “Look at the floor near the base of the wall. What do you see?”
Imsiba studied the hard-packed earth in the swath of light falling through the doorway. “Nothing.”
With a satisfied nod, Bak pulled his dagger, a plain bronze weapon of army issue, from the sheath attached to his belt. He dropped to his knees, brushed away the dust until a crack appeared, inserted the blade, and pried a carefully molded section out of the floor. Below was a hole more than half a cubit square.
“I found this by chance when we moved into this house,” he said. “It smells of date wine. A previous o
ccupant must’ve kept a secret supply here, I suspect to drink through the day while he performed his duties.”
“It looks safe enough,” Imsiba admitted, “but to keep the gold…it’s beyond my understanding.”
“Maiherperi said before we left Waset, ‘If, through poor judgment, an innocent man is made to look guilty, it’s as great an affront to the lady Maat as was the criminal act itself.’ Since I’m not certain Azzia took her husband’s life or knew before his death of this gold, I must search deeper for the truth.”
Imsiba expelled a long frustrated sigh. “By all accounts, the commandant was an honorable man. If someone else-a lover, perhaps-gave the gold to her for safekeeping and Nakht found it in her possession, he would’ve had no choice but to take her before the viceroy. Men have been slain for lesser reasons.”
“And she passed it on to me to make herself look innocent,” Bak said irritably. “I know. We’ve been through all that before.” He rammed the dagger into the sheath. “You admitted you were no more able to guess her thoughts than I was. Why do you believe she’s guilty?”
“I’m not sure she is,” Imsiba said with obvious reluctance.
“Hear me out.” Bak paused, gathered his thoughts. “Azzia could’ve slain Nakht during a simple lover’s quarrel, but I think it more likely his life was taken to keep him from airing his knowledge of this gold.” He stared at the glittering slab, and a grim smile touched his lips. “If I give this to Tetynefer, word will spread through Buhen like dust on the wind. The man who stole it will brush away his footprints and we’ll never find him. If I keep it and Azzia tells him I have it, he’ll sooner or later conclude I’m as dishonest as he and will come for it.”
“If no one comes?”
“I’ll report it to Tetynefer.”
Imsiba pursed his lips, his brow furrowed. “What if the woman is innocent? Won’t she tell the steward you have it if she thinks you’ve kept it for yourself?”
“Yes, but by that time…” Bak shrugged off the doubt which threatened to swallow his confidence. “With luck, and if the lord Amon chooses to smile on us, this scroll will point to the guilty man, might even name him.”
Worry clouded Imsiba’s face. “You’re gambling with the gods, my friend.”
Bak twisted the rolled papyrus in his fingers, studying the blank surface, longing to look inside. No, he had dallied too long already. Tetynefer was expecting him. He dropped it in the hole, laid the ingot beside it, and replaced the block. Within moments, the hiding place was as invisible as it had been before, and his pallet covered it.
He stood up, smiled to reassure the sergeant. “They say the path gold takes from the mines to the royal treasury is so carefully controlled no man can lay his hands on as much as a single grain. Yet someone took that slab. When I learn how it was done, I pray my own offense will be forgiven and forgotten and Maatkare Hatshepsut herself will free me from bondage in this wretched fortress.”
Hurt and disappointment settled on Imsiba’s face.
A pang of conscience touched Bak’s heart and he clasped the Medjay’s shoulders. “You mustn’t worry, Imsiba. Maiherperi will send another officer to take my place, one who’ll know better than I how to convince the people of this city that you’re as loyal to Kemet as they are.”
The words sounded hollow in his ears. Oh, yes, he thought, Maiherperi will send the best man available, but will he be an officer who distances himself from his men? Will he make Imsiba and the other Medjays feel utterly alone in this remote outpost where they’re not wanted?
Bak hurried along a street so broad six men could walk abreast. The lord Khepre, the rising sun, had yet to climb above the eastern horizon, but traffic abounded in spite of the early hour. Yawning sentries streamed off the battlements after the changing of the guard. A column of spearmen, half-awake, grumbling, marched toward the desert gate on their way to the practice field outside the walls. Local farmers led braying donkeys laden with produce bound for the market.
Ahead, two massive towers rose into the pale dawn sky, the gate between them open and manned. Bak could not see the river beyond, but a fresh breeze smelling faintly of fish wafted through the portal and blew puffs of dust along the thoroughfare. Tired after a long night with no sleep, sticky with the previous day’s sweat, he longed for a swim and his sleeping pallet. Soon, he promised himself, and headed with little enthusiasm into a narrow, less-traveled lane to his right.
Another turn, a quiet, empty lane took him to one of the larger homes in Buhen. A servant escorted him into a modest reception hall. The ceiling, supported by a central pillar, was higher than those of the adjacent rooms, allowing the faint early morning light and breeze to filter through high windows. The space was cluttered with a loom, a grindstone, pottery water jars, and a few toys. A doorway covered with a rush mat led to what Bak assumed were family rooms. Through an open portal to the right, he saw in the fluttery light of several oil lamps a heavy middle-aged man sorting through a basket filled with rolls of papyrus. He was as bald as a melon and his belly protruded like rising bread dough over the belt of his ankle-length kilt.
This was Tetynefer, the chief steward responsible for receiving and disbursing garrison supplies, collecting tolls on trade goods passing through, and recording copper and gold from the mines and tribute collected from local chieftains for the royal coffers. Thus he was the highest-ranking bureaucrat in Buhen and the man in charge until a new commandant could be appointed.
He looked up as Bak entered. “Ah, there you are, Officer Bak. Come in. Come in.”
Waving his visitor onto a stool, he scooped up a scroll lying on the floor, seated himself cross-legged on a thick linen pad, and spread the papyrus across the fabric stretched tight over his thighs. Beside him lay a narrow wooden pallet in which had been cut a slot to contain reed pens and round wells that held moistened red and black ink.
“This is a serious matter, young man, very serious.” With an officious scowl, Tetynefer pulled a pen from the pallet and dipped it into the black ink. “The viceroy will expect a detailed report. We must tell him exactly what happened.” He glanced at Bak. “I know you’re an educated man, but in a delicate situation like this, I prefer to send a document written in my own hand and impressed with my personal seal.”
Tetynefer, Bak realized, could hardly wait to assume his temporary authority and gain the viceroy’s personal attention. If he chose to start by taking upon himself the laborious task of writing out the official report, so much the better.
Bak told all he had seen and done, condensing the tale to a manageable length as the steward’s stubby fingers sped across the columns. When he reached the point where Azzia had given him the gold, he hesitated, reluctant to make the final irrevocable commitment. His conscience nagged him to mention the precious slab, as did his sense of self-preservation.
“Is that all?” Tetynefer prompted.
“Yes.” It came out like the croak of a frog. “Yes,” he repeated, his voice stronger, more firm.
Tetynefer stared at the scroll on his lap, then looked up, his chubby face as grave as any judge’s. “It’s clear mistress Azzia took her husband’s life.”
“She could be telling the truth. The room was accessible to many men.”
“Come now, Officer Bak! Nakht was a tested warrior, a man who saw action many times on the field of battle. While with the army of the king of Hatti, he stood out as one among many, an officer of great valor. Would a man like that allow another to thrust a dagger into his breast without defending himself? Certainly not! On the other hand, a wife could come close and distract him with words of seduction.” Tetynefer nodded, grunted his satisfaction. “Yes. That’s what happened. I’m absolutely sure.”
I wonder, Bak thought, if you’d be equally certain if you talked to her. “She seemed sincerely distressed by the commandant’s death.”
Tetynefer affected the woebegone look of the disappointed schoolmaster. “You’re young, Bak, and naive. You know nothing about wome
n.”
Bak managed to keep his face blank, hiding his resentment at being treated like a child and his amazement that this fat old loaf of a man should consider himself so worldly.
“Mistress Azzia is a stranger in Kemet,” Tetynefer went on. “She has no family, no one to turn to now that she has no husband. If you were she, if you’d just slain the man who provided for you-and provided quite well, as you most certainly noticed-wouldn’t you be sincerely distressed?”
Bak conceded the point, but not aloud. He refused to give the steward the satisfaction.
Tetynefer dabbed the pen in the ink and poised it above the scroll. “I’ll tell the viceroy you’ll take her to Ma’am on the next northbound military transport. It should arrive in Buhen today and will sail away in…what? Three days. Yes, that should satisfy him that we’re conducting ourselves efficiently.”
Three days! Bak’s stomach knotted. To protect himself, he had to tell Tetynefer about the gold before he set foot on that ship. Would the one who stole it screw up the courage to approach him in so short a time?
Taking care to hide his dismay, he said, “Before I left Waset, Commander Maiherperi advised me to search for the truth until I find it. In this case, I’m not sure I have. Therefore, I need more time to prove the woman’s guilt or innocence.”
The steward raised a disdainful eyebrow. “How do you expect to do that?”
“I’ll ask questions until I’m satisfied one way or the other.”
Tetynefer snorted. “You clearly have no experience in delving into the mysteries of the human heart. If you had, you’d have seen Azzia’s distress for what it is: the will to live in the best and most comfortable manner possible.”
Bak gritted his teeth so no words would escape. He dared not offend this man. When the time came to speak aloud of the gold, he wanted the steward to accept his reasons for keeping it, not close his ears to the truth out of spite.