As he neared the edge of the vegetation, he snapped from a bush a twig thickly covered with small leaves. Kneeling beside the path, he studied the dirt, which looked as if it had been disturbed by the passage of perhaps a half-dozen peo ple coming and going. Not nearly enough, to his way of thinking, for a path in constant use day in and day out, as this one was.
The footprints ended not far away, at the center back of the mansion of the lord Amon, in a jumble of smudged tracks left by individuals who had come to offer prayers at the chapel of the hearing ear. A length of white linen, stained by age, dust, and burning sunlight, covered the opening to a shallow booth that sheltered what he knew to be a deep re lief of the deity carved into the wall directly behind the sanctuary. There, he reasoned, was the most likely place to slay a man, catching him unawares while he conversed with the god.
He carefully brushed away the upper surface of dirt about a pace to the right of the spot where the body had been dragged into the weeds. He found blood. Here, too, the slayer had thrown dirt, thinking to hide all signs of the mur der-and his own footprints as well.
Bak swept away more dirt, following the trail of blood.
Although trampled by those who had come since the mur der, the track was clear enough, and soon he reached a spot directly in front of the chapel. A small brownish stain at the lower edge of the cloth told him he had guessed right. He brushed away more dirt and found a much disturbed puddle of dried blood that had flowed beneath the cloth and into the shelter. Pushing aside the cover, he revealed the relief in a niche. On both sides of the windowlike frame were the large, deeply carved ears of the lord Amon. Here, any man or woman great or small could come in times of need to pray to the god or to seek aid.
Visited by many through the course of a day, this would have been a risky place to slay a man. It was, however, iso lated and hidden from the general view, making it an ideal place to commit so heinous a crime at sunset when people were eating their evening meal and preparing for the night, or early in the morning before they began to stir.
He let the cloth fall into place and joined the others.
“Bring him out to the path. I need a better, closer look.”
Psuro nodded to the two Medjays, who carried a litter into the weeds. While they rolled the body onto it and brought it back, Bak questioned the young man who had found Merya mon. He had seen a woman and child bending a knee before the shrine and no one else. The wilted vegetation had caught his attention and the many flies had drawn his eyes to the body. He had realized right away that the blood was dry, that
Meryamon had been dead for some time. He had sent the woman for help and that’s all he knew.
Bak allowed him to leave and turned to the body. He ran his fingers through Meryamon’s hair and detected no bump or blood. He rolled him one way and then the other and found no bruises or cuts. The priest must have been down on his knees, praying to the god, when his assailant came up be hind him and slit his throat. It had probably happened so fast that he had felt nothing, simply toppled over. Not wanting him found too quickly, the slayer had pulled him into the weeds and hastily thrown dirt around, hiding him temporar ily from all but the most inquisitive.
Glancing at the chapel, Bak imagined the deeply carved image of the lord Amon, listening to Meryamon speak, pos sibly plead for… For what? What had the priest needed or desired? Had he known Woserhet’s slayer and asked for advice or absolution? Had he feared his life would be taken by the same hand? Whatever his need, the god had failed him.
Bak whisked the flies away from the wound with the twig. The insects swarmed upward. Swallowing his distaste, he took a closer look at the dead man’s neck. He muttered an oath. He had seen a similar cut before, not once but twice.
“Take him away,” he told Psuro. “To the house of death.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I must speak with Hori.”
“I’ll send a man for him.”
The sergeant, followed by the Medjays carrying the litter, hastened down the path and vanished around the corner of
Ipet-isut. Bak and Amonked followed at a slower pace.
Bak flung his makeshift brush into the weeds and wiped his hands together as if ridding them of the feel of death.
“The Hittite merchant Maruwa was slain in the same way as
Meryamon and Woserhet, and by the same man.”
“Are you certain?” Amonked asked, caught by surprise.
“I’d wager my iron dagger that they were.” Iron was a metal more rare than silver and more valuable than gold, and the dagger had been a gift from the only woman Bak had ever loved. To him, it was priceless, as Amonked knew.
“Two men slain in a similar manner over a short period of time might be a coincidence. Three such occurrences are more likely than not related.”
“I can easily see a connection between Woserhet’s death and that of Meryamon. Each man toiled for the lord Amon and dealt daily with the valuable objects in his storage mag azines. But what of the Hittite?”
“I have no idea,” Bak admitted. “Importing horses for the royal stables is a world removed from the storehouses within the sacred precinct.”
“Meryamon had no family in Waset, so he shared these quarters with several men of similar circumstances who toil here in the sacred precinct.” Bak crossed the threshold, leav ing the small dwelling in which the priest had lived.
Hori stood outside, trying to catch his breath after his speedy journey from the Medjays’ quarters. “How will I know which records were his, sir?”
“They keep no records here.” Bak led the way down the narrow, dusty lane. “Such a thing is frowned upon by the
Overseer of Overseers, who insists that all records remain in the storage blocks or be taken to the central storehouse archives. Also, the house is too small, with no space for any thing but the most personal of items. In Meryamon’s case, clothing, scribal equipment, and a few short letters from his father, a public scribe in Abedju.”
The path they trod was hugged on both sides by small in terconnected buildings that housed servants of the lord
Amon and their families: craftsmen, scribes, bakers and brewers, and innumerable others who performed duties re lated to the well-being of the deity and the priests and scribes who tended to the god’s needs.
Hori half ran to keep up. “Since many of the records
Meryamon kept in the storage block now lie on the roof of our quarters, practically impossible to read, I’ll go to the archives. How far back should I begin?”
“The day he was given his present task. About three years ago, according to the men who shared his dwelling place.”
“I thank the lord Amon he was a young man.” Hori dropped back to follow Bak around a donkey tethered in front of an open doorway. Inside they heard a woman berat ing her husband. “By the time I finish this task, I’ll know the comings and goings of the ritual equipment as well as he did. Maybe better.”
Bak ignored the mild complaint. “While you’re there, ask the scribes if they have any records of dealings between the
Hittite merchant Maruwa and any scribe or priest within the sacred precinct.”
“Why would the lord Amon have need of horses? They’re much too valuable to be used as beasts of burden or for food or to be sacrificed. I know couriers sometimes ride them, but all they’re really good for is to pull a chariot.”
“I’ll not lay down a bet that you’ll find him named,” Bak admitted, “but you must look anyway. And don’t forget the workshop where the objects are cleaned and repaired.
They’ll have records, too.”
“I know no more now than I did the day Maruwa died.”