by Lauren Haney
Bak eyed a reed skiff tacking across the transport’s wake, its white sail blossoming in the morning breeze. “He must record every word he hears, Imsiba. I want to end this matter once and for all.”
“What if one or more of our men were alone, with no one to vouch for them?”
“If I must,” Bak said with a faint, humorless smile, “I’ll seek Nofery’s help. She pledged her cooperation before I left her last night, and her women will say whatever she desires.”
Imsiba chuckled. “You’re a scoundrel, my friend.”
Bak’s laugh was hollow. “When you’ve learned all you can, come to my quarters. I’ll not tarry here for long, for I must study the scroll mistress Azzia gave me.”
Imsiba trotted away along the line of trees, heading for the fortress. Bak prayed Nofery’s lies would not be needed. His decision to keep the gold weighed heavy on his shoulders; the transport’s arrival and imminent departure added to his burden. Counting on the sly and no doubt greedy old woman to protect his men would add a load almost too heavy to bear.
Bak shoved his sleeping pallet back to its normal position and, scroll in hand, headed for the stairway to the roof. At the top he ran a few paces across the flat, hard surface, so hot it burned his bare feet. He ducked into the shade of a small rough pavilion, its frame made of wrist-thick bundles of reeds, its roof covered by loosely woven rush mats. A gentle breeze wafted across the rooftop to cool his naked torso. The yapping of a dog and the laughter of children drifted from the next building block. Voices of soldiers rose from nearby lanes.
Sitting beside a cold brazier, he lifted a square of linen from the top of a round pottery bowl and peeked inside. As he had hoped, Hori had left his morning meal, a thick vegetable stew with a small loaf of bread lying on top, wrapped in leaves to keep it dry. His stomach ached from hunger; the aroma of onions and beans seemed finer than incense or myrrh. He eyed the scroll and the food with equal longing, decided to compromise. Waving off a fly, he unwrapped the bread, replaced the linen on the bowl, and broke out the plug from a beer jar. He took a long drink, praying fervently the document would name the man who stole the gold or at the very least, provide a clue to Azzia’s guilt or innocence.
He tore off a piece of bread, its crust already hard from the morning heat, and began to eat. As he untied the cord around the scroll, a chunk of dried clay dropped to the floor, a fragment of a broken seal. Just a few symbols remained, but he was fairly sure it had been impressed by Nakht. Laying the binding aside, he began to unroll the papyrus. He had revealed less than two columns when he found a second scroll rolled inside. His heart soared into his throat. Two documents doubled his chance of finding what he needed.
He separated them and glanced through the outer roll. It was a list of tribute, trade items, and other products passing north through Buhen during the past two years, including gold, copper, and stone received from the desert mines and quarries. Disappointed at finding so mundane a document, he set it aside and scanned the inner scroll. It too was a scribal record, but its subject matter was far more promising. It referred to three gold mines located in the wadis, dry watercourses, of the eastern desert.
Praying this scroll would be more enlightening, Bak read the columns with a critical eye. For the past two years, for each of the cooler months when men could toil without too much loss of life, it gave the number of miners at the three locations, the amount of rock crushed and washed, and the weight of the raw gold delivered to the smelters in Buhen. All three mines, he could see, were similar in size and were worked by nearly identical numbers of men. Their yields varied slightly from one month to the next, but he suspected that was a reflection of the irregular ore content in each vein. Like the outer document, it was nothing more than a list, naming no names, pointing no fingers.
He was baffled. He doubted Nakht would have hidden the scrolls with the gold if they had no significance, but their importance eluded him. Laying the documents on the rooftop beside him, he grabbed the bowl, nested it in his lap, tore another chunk from the loaf, and dipped it in the stew.
While he ate, he glanced often at the scrolls. What if Azzia had lied? What if Nakht had not hidden them in her bedchamber, as she claimed? Had she grabbed the first two documents she could lay her hands on and included them with the gold to confuse the issue?
Far from pleased with the thought, he quickly finished the stew, stretched out full-length in the shade, hands beneath his head, and stared at the mat above him. He recalled Azzia’s words and her face, pictured her lovely form as he had seen it in the torchlit courtyard, imagined her disrobed and lying naked in his arms. Feeling a growing need in his loins, he cursed aloud, told himself he had been too long without a woman, forced himself to think again of the scrolls.
The long night had exhausted him, the beer and stew had made him sleepy. His eyes closed of their own volition and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Something cool and wet touched his cheek. He jerked erect, his eyes snapped open. A lean white puppy sat on its haunches beside him, head cocked to the side, brown eyes pleading for attention. Laughing at his momentary fright, Bak pulled the dog onto his lap to scratch its broad muzzle and sagging ears. Hori had found the dirty, starving creature whining piteously on the riverbank a week or so before they had reached Buhen. The boy had washed the mud from its hair, fed it, and made it his own.
Bak eyed the shadows cast by the pavilion. He had slept the morning away. He allowed the puppy to curl up between his legs and took up the scrolls. Within moments, he knew the lady Maat, goddess of truth and order, had visited him while he slept and had removed the blindness from his eyes. They flew over the documents, picking up and registering the least discrepancy. And there was a serious discrepancy. The total amount of gold leaving Buhen had remained stable over the past twenty-four months. However, during the past twelve months, a considerably larger amount of rock had been crushed and washed at one of the three mines, called the Mountain of Re, than during the previous year. Where the yield should have increased, the weights of the shipments delivered to the smelters in Buhen had not changed. The quality of the vein could have deteriorated, but the golden slab hidden in the room beneath him convinced him otherwise.
Somehow, someone had been stealing a portion of the gold brought from the mine called the Mountain of Re. From what he could see, far more had been taken than the single thin ingot Azzia had given him. He was awed by the brazenness of the act-and intimidated at the thought of pitting his wits against a man clever enough to steal so much and remain undetected for so long.
“You must say nothing of what I’ve told you, Hori. If so much as a word leaks from your mouth, the thief will wipe away all signs of himself and will never be snared.” Bak gave the chubby fourteen-year-old scribe his sternest look.
“I’ll not utter a word, sir, that I promise.” Hori tried to look as serious as Bak, but his large black eyes glittered with excitement and his feet practically danced along the lane, almost deserted at this, the hottest time of day. “I prayed to the lord Thoth that our year in Buhen wouldn’t be dull, and he’s answered tenfold.” Thoth was the god of writing.
Bak thought of his own, similar prayer to the lord Amon, greatest of the gods. He wished with all his heart that he’d been more specific and asked for action on the field of battle.
“What do you think we’ll find in the commandant’s office?” Hori asked. “The name of the one who stole the gold?”
“For that kind of luck, we’d need the prayers of every priest in Kemet, from the lowliest to the chief priest of the lord Amon himself.”
His words did nothing to dampen Hori’s enthusiasm. The boy chattered on, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper each time they met or passed another man. His happiness, usually so infectious, did little to lighten Bak’s spirits. He had decided that in all fairness he should tell Azzia of Tetynefer’s decision to send her to the viceroy for judgment.
As they walked into the commandant’s resi
dence, Bak placed a forefinger to his lips to silence the boy. A vestibule and a long, rather dark hallway took them to the audience hall, a spacious room with a high ceiling supported by octagonal wooden pillars painted red, and white walls decorated with bright geometrical designs. Near the entrance, an archer was dictating a letter to a public scribe, a tired-looking man of middle years. Two younger scribes stood nearby, arguing with a rotund man about the amount of the toll levied on the trade goods he was shipping downriver. Near the portal to the stone stairwell leading to the second floor, a fat, older scribe was conferring with a slim gray-haired officer Bak had never seen before, a man he assumed had come from one of the fortresses located upstream on the long stretch of rapids called the Belly of Stones. Several scribes and officers could be glimpsed in the offices surrounding the hall.
Nodding to the few men he had met, Bak led Hori to a closed door off to the side. He broke the seal he had placed there the previous night, released the latch, and they entered. Scattered around the office, the largest in the building, were an armchair, several stools, and a pair of low tables on which sat a half-dozen oil lamps. At the rear, two wooden document chests shared a wall with the latched and sealed door that led to the base of the stairway to the battlements. Two more chests filled the wall to the right. All four contained row upon row of neatly stacked scrolls.
“For the love of Amon,” Hori muttered, his spirits flagging. “So much to read? It’ll take all day and far into the night.”
Bak had to smile. “Not so long, I think. Most refer to the day-to-day administration of the garrison: assignments of men and officers, weapons disbursed from the arsenal, food and clothing handed out, quarters occupied. Those reports will tell us nothing. We need only glance through them to be sure of what they are. We’ll read the rest more thoroughly, especially the entries in the garrison daybook and the reports of the caravan journeys.”
“Still, it seems an endless task.”
“If we’re not finished by sunset, when Imsiba awakens, I’ll do the rest myself. He has additional men to question, and he’ll need you with him.”
With an end in sight, the boy was content. He grabbed a stool, placed it in front of the nearest chest, and withdrew a scroll. Bak left him sitting there, reading, and hurried across the audience hall to the stone stairwell and the second story. Ruru, the Medjay assigned to stay with Azzia, a man so thin he looked all arms and legs, told him she and her servants were in the storeroom, gathering linen for the wrapping of Nakht’s body. Bak thought of her quiet grief the previous night and could not bear to disrupt her unhappy task. He spun around and hurried back to Hori.
They were almost finished with the initial chest when Ruru tapped on the door. He said he had left the courtyard to relieve himself, and when he returned, he found the archer Harmose with Azzia. Should he send him away or let them talk?
Harmose, Bak remembered, was the half-Medjay archer whom Nakht had made his translator. One of the four men who had been on the wall during the night. A man the commandant had trusted, so Imsiba believed. Why had he come now? He had to know Azzia’s usual activities had been restricted. Even her women friends had understood, sending servants with messages of sympathy rather than coming in person.
“I’ll speak with him,” Bak said.
Hori, unhappy at being left to toil alone, flung him an accusing glance. Paying no heed, Bak hastened upstairs. Midway across the courtyard, he had a clear view of Azzia’s sitting room. She and Harmose each occupied a low stool. They were leaning toward each other, speaking so softly their words did not carry beyond the door. Her hands were clasped in his. Bak quashed a vague feeling of envy and strode to the door. If Azzia had a lover, as Paser had so sarcastically hinted, could this be the man rather than Mery?
They saw him and drew apart. Harmose stood up with an annoyed frown. He was close to Bak in age, half a hand shorter; his shoulders were broader, his wrists thicker, his upper arms heavier. His terracotta skin and oval face had been passed to him in his father’s seed. His curly black hair, cropped short, had come from his mother, a woman of Wawat.
“Archer Harmose!” Bak said. “Have you not heard that mistress Azzia is to be left alone with her sorrow?”
Harmose’s expression was defiant. “She should be surrounded by her friends, not held apart like this and made to weep alone. How can you be so cruel?”
Bak swore beneath his breath at this second charge in one day that he had no heart. Considering the circumstances of Nakht’s death, he had been more than generous with her. Harmose knew it, he was sure. He yearned to defend his actions, but he swallowed the words. As Maiherperi had said: a policeman must look to the gods for his reward, for the men he helps thank him with curses.
Azzia touched the archer’s hand. “It’s all right, Harmose. I’m in my own home instead of a cell, and my servants are here to comfort me. For that I’m grateful.”
“Grateful?” Harmose asked. “When you’ve done nothing wrong?”
She glanced at Bak and attempted a wry smile. “As you can see, my friends believe me innocent.” She must have realized her voice was too brittle, for she gave up the pretense. “Have you learned anything at all that will prove I am?”
“Nothing,” he admitted.
Harmose’s face darkened. “You haven’t tried.”
“If your concern for mistress Azzia is sincere, you’ll come away with me now,” Bak said, refusing to be baited.
“I’ll do no such thing!”
“If I’m to find the one who slew the commandant, I must learn all I can of his last hours. Would you have my questions open an unhealed wound?”
“Go with him, Harmose. Help him in every way you can.” Azzia’s voice grew hard, taut. “I want to know the guilty man, and I want to see him punished unto death.” Her control shattered at the final word and she ran from the room.
Harmose attempted to follow, but Bak stepped into the doorway, blocking his path.
The archer glared. “All right. I’ll answer your questions. But only because she asks it of me.”
Bak ushered him across the courtyard to Nakht’s reception room, where they would have more privacy. He motioned him onto a stool and took another for himself. The floor had been cleaned of all traces of blood. The chair had been set upright; the table beside it and the two lamps had been taken away. Bak could almost feel the murdered man’s presence, as if his ka was seated in the chair, listening. Harmose must have felt it, too, for his eyes strayed in that direction.
“Where were you when Nakht’s life was taken?” Bak asked.
“You suspect me?” Harmose asked, indignant.
Bak muttered a curse. He should not have begun with so tactless a question. “Other than mistress Azzia, I suspect no one.” He held up his hand to stave off another spate of denials. “If she’s innocent, as you say, someone else entered this room ahead of her. Someone who may’ve been seen coming or going, maybe by you since you spent some time on the battlements.”
Harmose’s expression remained wary. “I was on the wall, yes, but…” Bak saw the temptation to lie on the archer’s face, heard the regret when he answered. “I could see nothing from where I stood. I was on the far side of the citadel, in a tower overlooking the quay.”
Bak gave him a curious glance. “You remained there for some time, I’ve been told. What held your attention?”
“I was born in Kemet and I long for the black, fertile lands of my father’s people.” He flushed, as if ashamed of the admission. “The ships give me hope that one day soon I’ll return.”
Bak eyed him with a new interest, with the sympathy of a kindred soul. “I didn’t see your name among those inside this building after Nakht was slain. Did word of his death not spread among the sentries?”
“I think by then I was in the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen,” Harmose said with some reluctance.
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “What took you there? Surely no one visits the god in the middle of the night.”
“I do. Often.” Harmose at first appeared unwilling to explain, but finally said, “When the forecourt is cool and quiet, with no others around, I feel closer to him than at any other time. Sometimes he comes to me there in the dark to let me know he watches over me always.” Harmose stared at Bak, daring him to doubt.
Bak eyed the archer with a mixture of awe and suspicion. No god had ever spoken to him, but he had heard tales of men who had been so honored. Could Harmose be one of them? “The god’s mansion lies little more than a hundred paces down the street. Before you went inside, did you see anyone entering this building or leaving it?”
Harmose appeared to breathe a little easier, but not much. “As I came out of the tower, I saw your men escorting the last of the brawlers inside. Not long after, I saw Lieutenant Mery go in. A short time later, I saw Lieutenant Nebwa come out of a side lane and walk along the street in front of the storehouse.”
Nothing, Bak thought. Nothing new, enlightening, or even interesting. Frustrated, he stood up and walked to the door. Across the courtyard, Ruru squatted in the shade of a potted sycamore, polishing his spear point. The old female servant bent over a loom shaded by potted trees. The peaceful domestic scene made Nakht’s violent death seem unreal. What am I doing? he wondered. Asking questions that lead nowhere, hiding gold I should report, seeking a murderer when the most likely suspect is within my grasp. What folly!
Sorely tempted to give up, he turned away from the door. As he did, he noticed, standing close by, the slim inlaid cedar chest, its lid askew. Without thinking, he raised the lid to set it in its proper place. Inside he saw two empty lamps and Nakht’s iron dagger lying beside a silver-inlaid leather sheath. The blade was covered with a dry brownish film, blood that had flowed through Nakht’s body. Bak stared at the weapon, his skin prickling. He was certain its presence there was an omen. Arranged perhaps by Nakht’s ka, urging him on.
He replaced the lid, crossed the room, and sat on a camp stool before the closed door behind which rose the stairway to the battlements. “What can you tell me of Nakht’s activities on the day of his death?”