“He’s not dead! He can’t be!”
“I’m sorry, mistress Ashayet, but you must believe me.
His ka has flown to the netherworld.” Of all Bak’s many and varied duties as a police officer, the one he disliked the most was informing the family of a loved one’s death.
The small, fragile woman knelt, wrapped her arms around the three young children clinging to her skirt, and hugged them close. “We’re waiting for him. He’ll come at any in stant to take us to Ipet-resyt to see the end of the procession.”
“Mistress Ashayet…”
She released the children, stepped back, and sent them to ward the rear of the house with a fond slap on the oldest one’s bare behind. She smiled brightly at Bak. “What can I be thinking, leaving you standing in the doorway like this?
Come in, sir. You may as well await my husband in comfort.”
Wishing he could flee, Bak followed her through the front room, which was cluttered with hay for the family donkey, large water and storage jars, spindles and an upright loom, and four ducks nesting in large flattish bowls. She led him into the next room, the primary family living space, whose high ceiling was supported by a single tall red pillar and pierced by windows that allowed inside a generous amount of light. A couple of stools, a woven reed chest, and a tiny table shared the space with the low mudbrick platform on which the family sat and the adults slept.
“Take my husband’s stool, sir. Would you like a beer while you wait?”
“Mistress Ashayet.” He caught her by the upper arms, making her face him. “I regret I must be so harsh, but you leave me no choice. Someone took your husband’s life. He was slain early this morning. In a storehouse in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon.”
“No!” Her eyes met his, a plea formed on her face. “No,” she said again with less assurance, a faltering conviction.
“Your husband is dead, mistress.” He held her tight, forc ing her to give him her full attention. “You must believe me.
You alone shoulder the responsibility for your household, your children. You must be strong for them.”
A look of horror, of unimaginable pain fell over her face like a cloud. She jerked away, stumbled through the next room and into the kitchen, a small area lightly roofed with branches and straw, where she dropped to the hard-packed earthen floor and began to sob. The children gathered around her, lost and forlorn. Bak shifted a stool to a place where he could watch, making sure she did no harm to herself, and sat down to wait.
After what seemed to him an eternity and no doubt longer to a child, the youngest of the three, a girl less than two years of age, began to whimper. The oldest, a boy of no more than four years, looked hopefully at his mother. When she failed to notice, he went to the little girl, put his arms around her, and tried to soothe her. Left alone, the middle child, another boy, hurried to his mother and prodded her, trying to attract her attention.
She lifted her face from her hands, saw the youngsters’ unhappiness and confusion. Gathering her courage, she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and spoke to them in a soft and comforting voice. Not until they returned to their play did she give a long, ragged sigh and look at
Bak. Rising from the floor, she plucked two beer jars from a basket, broke the plugs from both, and entered the room in which he sat.
“Who slew my husband?” she asked.
“We don’t yet know.” Bak saw anger forming, a substitute for sorrow. “I made a vow to Amonked, the Storekeeper of
Amon, that I’d snare the vile criminal-and I will.”
She handed a jar to him and sat on the platform. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. Her expression grew hard and determined. “Woserhet was a good man, Lieutenant, a good father to our children. Whoever took his life must be made to pay with his own life.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve wished him dead?”
“I told you, he was a good man. He had no enemies.”
Bak took a sip of beer, which was milder and smoother than most kitchen brews. The woman erred, thinking her husband had no foes. Woserhet’s death had been no acci dent. “I’ve been told he reported directly to the chief priest.
Can you tell me what his duties were?”
“He seldom spoke of his task. Each time he did, he had me vow that I’d not repeat his words. You must ask Hapuseneb.”
“Hapuseneb is presently walking to Ipet-resyt in today’s procession. He’ll be leading rituals of one kind or another for the remainder of the day and for ten days more. As much as I’d like to speak with him, I can’t.”
She stared at her fingers, wound tightly around the beer jar.
“If I’m to find Woserhet’s slayer, I must begin without de lay. Not in eleven days’ time.”
“I promised…”
He leaned toward her, willing her to help. “Mistress
Ashayet, your husband was responsible for the reversion of offerings for the Beautiful Feast of Opet. To be given so im portant a task, to dole out foodstuffs for such a momentous occasion, he must’ve held some position of responsibility.”
The silence stretched, then suddenly, “He was an auditor.”
“An auditor?” he echoed.
She nodded. “Hapuseneb, the chief priest, sent him to the lord Amon’s storehouses here and throughout the land of
Kemet. He gave him a scribe and four other men, all ser vants indentured to the god. His task and that of Tati, the scribe, was to make sure the records matched the stored items. The other four lifted and fetched, ran errands and, when the need arose, saw that no one impeded them while they went about their task.”
Bak whistled softly. “A heavy responsibility.” A task where a man might well make enemies.
“Yes, sir.” She spoke so softly he could barely hear.
“His most recent audits have been conducted here, I gather, in the southern capital.”
She nodded. “He’s been in Waset for about a month. We were so happy to have him home.” She swallowed hard, flashed a smile much too animated to be real.
“Had his behavior changed recently in any way? As if he might’ve quarreled with a priest or scribe who resented his intrusion? Or as if he’d come upon a dishonesty?”
“He’s been troubled for the past few days, yes.” She could not help but see the expectancy leaping into his heart. “He wouldn’t speak of it, but he was distracted much of the time.
When I tried to draw him out, he grew irritable. Impatient with the children. Quarrelsome even. He wasn’t like that usually.” She bit her lip, her voice trembled. “He was a good, kind man, Lieutenant. Decent. Who would want to slay him?”
Bak knew he must soon leave, allowing her the privacy to mourn. “Did he ever bring home any records?”
“No, sir.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She hastily wiped them away and glanced around the room. “As you can see, we have little enough space. To add anything more would’ve made us too crowded by far.”
“Where would he have kept them?”
“The chief priest assigned him a small building not far from the mansion of the lord Amon, somewhere outside the walls of the sacred precinct. Hapuseneb wished to separate him and his servants from all who might wish to influence them.
Ptahmes, Hapuseneb’s aide, can tell you how to find it.”
“They’ve all gone, sir.” The guard, a man of advanced years with a huge mane of white hair, looked at Bak as at a man befuddled. His task was to watch over the spacious building, built around the open courtyard in which they stood, where the chief priest and his staff carried out their administrative duties. “Surely you know that not a man within the sacred precinct would miss the procession if he didn’t have to.”
“I know that a large number of priests escort the lord
Amon to his southern mansion,” Bak said, smothering his ir ritation, “and I’m also aware that many men must stand well behind them, making sure they’re properly cleansed, clothed, and equipped. I assume much of the preparation is done here, after which they’re free to go.”