“All that remained inside would’ve been destroyed, yes, but these were safe. As is the custom, I’d gone to the store house the day before and removed everything the priests will use throughout the festival.” Meryamon gestured toward the men toiling beneath the lean-to. “The ritual implements will be used time and time again until the lord Amon returns to his northern mansion. They’re cleaned after each use.”
Bak looked at the men and the precious objects scattered around them. Many had been crafted of gold, a few of the much rarer metal silver, others of bronze or faience or glass. Each a work of art. Objects considered by User to be of insignificant value when compared to those stored in the treasury.
“Where do you keep them when they’re not in the store house?”
“Here. In this building. It’s safer than carrying them back and forth.” Meryamon smiled. “Never fear, sir. They’re well cared for.”
A short, fleshy servant seated beneath the lean-to spat out an oath and scrambled to his feet, swatting at something too small to see, a flying insect of some kind. His fellows laughed-until the tiny assailant moved on to fly around their heads. Spitting curses, a few men waved the creature off while the remainder covered their heads with their arms.
Finally, an older, thinner man slapped the back of his neck and chortled success. Laughing at themselves, the men re turned to their task.
Bak stood up, prepared to leave. As if an afterthought, he said, “Oh yes, I meant to ask you. The day the lord Amon traveled to Ipet-resyt, I saw you walking south along the processional way. You were with a red-haired man. I thought to join you, but lost you in the crowd. I once knew a man of similar appearance, but don’t remember his name. I wonder if your friend is the one I knew.”
A frown so slight Bak almost missed it touched Merya mon’s face; he paused an instant to think. His eyes met
Bak’s and he spoke with the candor of an honest man. “I may’ve talked with such an individual, but I don’t recall do ing so.”
Bak left the workshop, convinced Meryamon had lied.
Why tell a falsehood over a trivial matter? Or was it trivial?
What message had the shard contained? Had it in some way related to Woserhet’s death?
He thought of the beautiful and valuable objects he had seen in the workshop. User might not believe them worthy of stealing, but to him-and no doubt to Meryamon as well-they were of greater value than anything he could hope to attain in a lifetime. Even when melted down and im possible to identify, as the objects would have to be in order to be disposed of in the land of Kemet, their value would be awesome.
Another telling fact to Bak’s way of thinking: Meryamon had been the first man at the scene of the murder. He had raised the alarm in plenty of time to save the storage maga zine and the valuable objects that had remained within, but had not summoned help until after many of the scrolls strewn around the body had burned. If he had been stealing from the storehouse, he would certainly know which docu ments might incriminate him.
“I didn’t hear of Woserhet’s death until yesterday morn ing.” Nebamon, overseer of the block of storehouses in which Woserhet had died, glared blame at the elderly scribe at his side. “Before I could come to Ipet-isut to look into the matter, one of the scribal overseers at Ipet-resyt fell ill and I was pressed into taking his place. There went the day.”
Bak broke the seal and swung open the door of the small room where Woserhet had been slain. “Stay near the en trance. I’m not satisfied I’ve learned all I can from this place.”
The overseer grunted acknowledgment and stepped across the threshold. His scribe followed, holding aloft a flaming short-handled torch to illuminate as much of the room as possible. Bak remained outside but watched them closely to be sure they disturbed nothing.
“Hmmm.” In the wavering light of the torch, Nebamon studied the chamber. Some men might have considered his appearance amusing, men who failed to notice how serious his demeanor was. He had a short and pudgy body, a three quarter circle of curly white hair, and bushy white eyebrows.
“The floor will need to be cleaned and the walls and ceiling repainted to cover the soot, but the damage appears to be minimal.”
“The guards were quick to act. They feared the roof would catch fire and it would spread to other magazines.”
“I’ll see their swift action is rewarded. I’m convinced they averted a catastrophe.” Nebamon shuddered. “With so few men nearby to fight a conflagration, it could’ve spread all through the sacred precinct.”
Bak thought of the multitudes standing outside the enclo sure wall, watching the procession. He was certain every man among them would have come running. “You knew of
Woserhet’s task, I’ve been told.”
“User told us.” The overseer turned to leave the building, and his scribe followed.
“Did you keep a close watch on what he was doing?”
“Close enough.” Nebamon stepped up to a ladder leaning against the front of the building and placed a foot on the lowest rung. “From what I saw inside, I doubt the roof suf fered damage, but I must look nonetheless. Will you come with me, Lieutenant?”
Bak followed him upward, while the scribe remained be hind. A large flock of pigeons, caught sunning themselves in the warm glow of the lord Khepre, took flight as the men climbed onto the roof. The vaults of the long row of inter connected storage magazines formed a series of half cylin ders butted together side by side. The smooth white plaster surface was mottled by bird droppings, and windblown dirt and sand filled the depressions between the ridges.
“You followed his progress from one storage magazine to another?” Bak asked.
“As long as he was examining this storage block, yes.”
Nebamon knelt on the ridge at a spot Bak judged to be di rectly above the area where the fire had been the hottest. The overseer drew a knife from the sheath at his belt and began to dig a hole in the plaster and the mudbrick beneath. “He finished with us over a week ago, apparently satisfied, and went on to another block. I was surprised to hear he’d come back. What was he doing here, Lieutenant? Do you know?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The overseer gave him a startled look. “Are you saying he told no one?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“It never pays to be too secretive. Never.”
Shaking his head to reinforce the thought, Nebamon dug deeper. He studied the hole as he excavated, searching for signs that the fire had crept through the straw mixed into the mud when the bricks were made. “You know, of course, that these storehouses are filled with valuables. Not merely ritual vessels but cult statues, amulets carved or molded of pre cious stones and metals, aromatic oils, incense, objects brought from far-off lands to adorn the god, the sacred shrine, the sacred barque.”
“Meryamon mentioned only objects used in the rituals.
Does he know of the other items?”
“He should. He comes here daily.”
Kneeling beside the overseer, Bak picked up a small chunk dug from the rooftop and crumbled it with his fingers.
The straw was brittle and dry but unburned. The dried mud was brown, not the red of burned brick. “Would he have an opportunity to steal?”
Nebamon’s eyes narrowed. “Meryamon? What gave you that idea?”
“I’m asking, that’s all.”
“I suppose he could steal an item or two, but why would he? He has a position few men attain at such a young age. A man would have to’ve lost his wits to risk so much.” The overseer moved to the hollow between the ridges and again dropped to his knees. “If anything had been missing, I’m confident Woserhet would’ve discovered the loss. He and his servants were very thorough. I watched them. They counted every object.”
“You respected him, I see.”
“He could be irksome at times.” Nebamon, brushing the sand from the hollow, looked up and smiled. “As are all au ditors.” Sobering, he said. “He had a task to do and he did it well. He was slow and careful and precise, as wary of mak ing a wrong accusation as he was of overlooking an offense against the lord Amon. I can’t fault him for that, now can I?”