“I resent being held here, Lieutenant.” Antef, standing in front of the forecastle of his ship, glared at Bak. “Must I be made to suffer merely because I had the misfortune of hav ing a man murdered on my vessel?”
“I’d think you’d look upon Maruwa as the unfortunate one.”
“I do. Of course I do.” The captain’s breast swelled with indignation. “Nonetheless, I should not be required to re main in Waset. I know nothing of his death except what I saw the day you found him.”
Bak stood with his back against the angle of the prow, looking the length of the deck, which appeared much differ ent from the last time he had been aboard. The mat walls of the deckhouse had been raised, allowing him to see all the way to the stern. The stalls had been removed, the piles of hay and bags of grain had been carried off, and the wooden flooring was so clean it glowed. Baskets and bundles and chests were stowed everywhere, not a large cargo, but enough, he assumed, to make an extended voyage worth while. Most of the crew had gone ashore. The two who re mained were toiling near the mast, talking together with the amity of men who have shared their tasks for months. When they believed themselves unobserved, they sneaked glances at Bak.
“You said at the time he may’ve been involved in Hittite politics. Do you know for a fact that he was?”
“A guess, that’s all.” Antef glanced around as if looking for something to sit on. Evidently the mounds of cargo lashed to the deck did not appeal, for he remained standing.
“A logical assumption. During all my voyages north, I’ve never seen a more bloodthirsty nation.”
“How often have you traveled in the land of Hatti?”
“Well… Never,” Antef admitted reluctantly. “But I’ve met many a man from there, and they’re all alike.”
Bak kept his expression bland, concealing his irritation with such generalities. “I’ve been told Maruwa was a fine man. Good-natured, hardworking, honest to a fault.”
Antef flushed. “He was different from the rest. A bit se cretive, but otherwise a good, cheerful companion on a long voyage. He cared for those horses he shipped as if they were beloved children. I know they were valuable, but still…”
The ship rocked beneath their feet, making the fittings creak, and the hull bumped hard against the mudbank beside which it was moored. One of the sailors, climbing up the mast, clung for his life and snapped out a chain of filthy oaths. The man seated on the deck below, unsnarling a tan gle of ropes, laughed heartily.
“Had you known him long?” Bak asked.
“Five years, maybe six.”
“Did he always transport the horses on your ship? Or did he use other vessels when this one wasn’t available?”
“Not many cargo ships are stable enough or have enough deck space to carry the numbers of animals he brought regu larly to Kemet. He knew of us all, and he used whichever vessel he found in Ugarit when he arrived. Or whichever was the first to reach that port if we all happened to be at sea.”
“What of his return journeys?”
“I’m quick to set sail-as are all of us who earn our bread on the water-and he usually stayed longer. Traveling alone, with no horses to transport, the size of the ship was of no im port. He could leave at any time on any vessel that happened to be sailing northward.”
Bak left the prow and walked slowly down the deck, look ing at baskets and bundles as he passed them by, reading la bels on the closed containers. Antef hurried after him like a mother goose concerned for her goslings. The cargo was di verse: the roughest of pottery and earthenware of a mediocre quality, leather goods, sheep skins, rough linen and fabric of a slightly higher quality, wine from a vineyard he had never heard of, strings of beads and other bright jewelry of small value. Scattered among these very ordinary trade items were bundles and baskets identified by their labels as containing finer goods. They appeared to have come from provincial es tates, although some had labels with ink so smeared they were illegible. Luxury items made within the household to be traded for a profit. Or so they seemed.
“Did you know Maruwa kept a woman in Waset?” Bak asked.
On a woven reed chest, he spotted a label he could not read: a flat chunk of dried mud tied to the handle, the sym bols scrawled and indecipherable. He knelt before the con tainer, broke the seal, and released the cord securing the lid.
Ignoring Antef’s shocked gasp, he looked inside. The chest was filled to the brim with fine linen.
“Damaged goods,” Antef hastened to tell him. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Bak read the tags on the surrounding containers and words inked on the shoulders of pottery jars. He found noth ing unusual or suspicious. Except the captain standing be side him, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the silence-or with Bak’s interest in his cargo.
“I knew he had a woman,” Antef said. “He never spoke of her, but the members of my crew would see them together in the market here or in the foreign quarter.”
Bak walked a few paces farther along the deck. Amid a stack of baskets, he spotted one labeled as having come from a provincial estate located considerably closer to Men nufer than to Waset. The nobleman might have brought the items south to trade in the teeming festival market, but the large port and market at Mennufer offered infinitely more possibilities for exchange.
Breaking the seal, he snapped the cord securing the lid and peered inside.
“Sir!” Antef exclaimed. “You can’t do that! The merchant who entrusted me with these items will hold me personally responsible.”
The basket held a dozen or more bronze cups and pitch ers. The linen might truly have been damaged goods, but these small, fine objects clearly were not. They had to be destined for the home of a wealthy nobleman or for the royal house of some far-off king.
“Send him to me or to Lieutenant Karoya. We’d be glad to explain our authority.”
Antef opened his mouth to object, but Bak’s cold stare si lenced him. They walked on, passing the sailor at the base of the mast. The man was toying with the ropes, acting busy, but the tangle had been unsnarled. Bak glanced upward, caught the man above leaning out from the masthead, star ing. The sailor pulled back and busied himself with a fitting.
Wondering how much the crew knew about the goods the vessel carried, Bak peered beneath the roof of the deckhouse.
Inside were the captain’s rolled sleeping pallet, a basket of personal items, and a few baskets of foodstuffs gathered for the coming voyage. One basket, so the label said, contained small bronze tools: harpoon heads, knives, needles, and so on. These were no doubt for daily shipboard use. Another, larger basket had no label at all. He broke the seal and cord, glanced at Antef. The captain was sweating profusely.
Bak lifted the lid and found ten or twelve small jars. They were unmarked, but he had seen enough during the several years he had conducted inspections at Buhen to guess that they held aromatic oils. Definitely not an ordinary trade item. A product much coveted by the wives and concubines of foreign kings. “This is your property, Captain?”
“No, sir.” Antef wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It belongs to the merchant whose goods I’m to deliver to Ugarit. He asked me to keep that bas ket out of the sun. Other than in the hold, where else could I stow it but here?”
“Are you transporting goods for only the one merchant, or for other men as well?”
“Just Zuwapi.”
Bak was not surprised by the captain’s easy revelation of the merchant’s identity. The name would be on the ship’s manifest and registered in the customs office. “A Hittite, if his name tells true.”
“Yes, sir. A highly respectable man, so I’ve been told.”
“Was he acquainted with Maruwa?”
“That I can’t say. He’s not as amiable as Maruwa was, so
I’d guess not.”
Bak was skeptical. The number of Hittites in Waset was small. “I must speak with him. Where can I find him?”