“I fear, Lieutenant, that you suffer from the common illu sion that priests are an idle lot. Most toil from dawn till dusk, their tasks never ending.”
The old man was so haughty Bak wondered if he had been a priest. “What of Ptahmes? Is he equally industrious or might I find him watching the procession?”
The guard pursed his lips in disapproval. “He certainly can’t speak with you today. He’s at Ipet-resyt, preparing for the lord Amon’s arrival and the rituals that will be conducted through the next ten days.”
Bak gave up. With no one available to help, he had no choice but to forget the dead man for the remainder of the day and give himself over to the festivities.
Bak stood on the processional way in front of the barque sanctuary where last he had seen his Medjays. As expected, the structure was empty, his men gone. Gods and royalty had long ago marched on, accompanied by the priests and digni taries, the dancers and acrobats and singers. The spectators had drifted away, many following their sovereigns and gods to Ipet-resyt. Those few satisfied they had seen enough were making their way home, while a large number had gone off in search of beer and a good time. The booths had been dis mantled to be carried farther along the route and set up again. The soldiers had broken ranks to join the rest in what ever endeavor most appealed to them.
He had forgotten how utterly deserted the processional way could be after everyone moved on. Sparrows twittered undisturbed in a sycamore whose limbs brushed the sanctu ary. Leaves rustled along the crushed limestone path, blown by the desultory breeze. Crows marched across trampled grasses and weeds, searching for bits of food dropped and forgotten. A dog gnawing a bone growled each time one of the large black and gray birds came close, threatening to steal his prize.
Bak glanced at the lord Re, already three-quarters of the way across the vault of heaven. No wonder he was hungry.
The food vendors would, by this time, have all moved to the far end of the processional way, near Ipet-resyt. More than a quarter hour’s fast walk.
He hastened southward. At first he had the path to him self, but the farther he strode, the more people he came upon. Many walked toward Ipet-resyt, while a few strode in the opposite direction. Some in a rush and others ambling along as if they had all the time in the world. People alone or in groups, chatting and laughing. Persons with the seri ous demeanors of the awe-struck or devout. Revelers who had watched the sacred barques and their sovereigns pass by and now saw fit to make merry. The few remaining po lice and soldiers turned a blind eye to all but the worst of fenses.
About halfway between Ipet-isut and Ipet-resyt, Bak spot 46
Lauren Haney ted two familiar figures approaching from the south: his scribe Hori and Kasaya, the youngest of his Medjays. He waved. Smiling with pleasure, they hastened to meet him.
“What are you two doing here?” he asked. “Have you grown weary of the pageantry?”
“We were looking for you, sir,” Hori said, falling in beside him. Delighted with the festival, the chubby young scribe practically skipped along the path.
“Where are the rest of our men?”
Kasaya took his place on Bak’s opposite side and they strode southward. “As soon as the procession was well away from the first barque sanctuary, Imsiba went off with his wife, leaving Pashenuro in command.” The tall, hulking young Medjay shifted his shield to a more comfortable posi tion and slung his spear over his shoulder in a very unsol dierly fashion. “He suggested we all stay together and keep up with the procession. So we did, hoping you’d rejoin us.”
“When the lord Amon rested at the fourth barque sanctu ary, we saw Amonked slip in among the noblemen, but you weren’t with him.” Hori eyed a pretty young woman stand ing in the shade of a sycamore with what had to be her par ents and siblings. “For the longest time, he was surrounded by people of wealth and position, and we couldn’t get near him.”
The young Medjay noticed Hori’s wandering attention and winked at Bak. “At the seventh barque sanctuary,
Pashenuro finally managed to speak with him. To ask him where you were.”
The girl turned her head to look at the three of them and
Hori glanced quickly away, his face flaming. “He told us of the dead man and said you’d stayed behind to investigate.
We could probably find you in the sacred precinct.”
“So we decided to look,” Kasaya said.
Half facing Bak, the scribe danced sideways up the pro cessional way, his feet scuffling the limestone chips, the girl forgotten. “Will you tell us about the dead man, sir? Who was he? What was he doing in the sacred precinct? Was he…?”
Laughing, Bak raised a hand for silence. While he spoke of all he had seen and heard, they hurried on. The crowds walking along with them grew thicker, the talking and laughter louder, more anticipatory. Seldom did anyone have the opportunity to see their sovereigns down on their knees before the lord Amon, adoring the deity with incense and food offerings. But here and now, at the beginning of the
Beautiful Feast of Opet, all who could get close enough could witness their rulers’ public subjugation to their divine father.
Bak vividly remembered the first time he had seen the of fering ritual, the disappointment he had felt. The festival had been much less grand during the reign of Akheperenre
Thutmose, the ritual not so formalized. Bak had been a child of ten or so years, grown too large to sit on his father’s shoulders. The older man had knelt so his son could stand on his knee and look around the heads of the multitudes.
The lord Amon had been concealed within his golden shrine, their sovereign kneeling, hidden by the crowd. He had seen nothing.
“Who do you think slew him, sir?” Hori asked.
Kasaya laughed. “How would Lieutenant Bak know that?
He hasn’t met anyone worthy of suspicion.”
“He met Woserhet’s wife.”
“Why would she slay him in the sacred precinct when she could much easier have slain him at home?”
Bak spotted Meryamon ahead, standing in the shade of a grove of date palms that towered over the sixth barque sanc tuary. The young priest was looking one way and then an other, studying the people walking along the processional way, and peering down the lanes that ended near the sanctu ary. He had been in such a hurry to leave the sacred precinct, yet here he was, apparently waiting for someone. A woman perhaps?
Hori flung a contemptuous look at the young Medjay.
“She wouldn’t want to point a finger at herself. Which she’d be doing if she cut his throat while he lay sleeping.”
“Cut his throat!” Kasaya shook his head in disgust. “A woman cut a man’s throat? No!”
Bak groaned inwardly. The pair’s squabbling seemed never to end. Fortunately neither took the other seriously and their friendship remained firm.
“If she was angry enough…” Hori turned to Bak. “Is
Woserhet’s wife a large woman, sir?”
“She’s small and slight. I suppose she could’ve slain him in the heat of anger, but I doubt it.” Bak felt a trickle of sweat working its way down his breastbone, his mouth felt as dry as the desert, and his stomach as empty as the barren wastes. Tearing his thoughts from himself, he thought over his conversation with Ashayet. “She was very upset when I told her of his death, and I saw no pretense in her sobbing.
After she collected herself, she became angry, and that, too, was no sham.” He shook his head. “No, she did not slay her husband, of that I’m convinced.”
“What of the priest Meryamon?” Hori asked, unaware of the fact that they were approaching the man of whom he spoke.
Bak’s eyes leaped forward to the young priest, who had left the palm grove and was striding up the processional way toward Ipet-resyt. He was not hurrying, but he was walking with purpose. “I suppose he could’ve slain him, but what reason would he have? He does nothing day after day but care for, hand out, and take back the special items used in the rituals.”