Relieved beyond measure, Bak thanked the lord Amon for freeing him from the passage. Before he could form another prayer, this one asking for a way out, he spotted, beyond the tree, a door closed by a sturdy mat.
Light flashed into the shelter, he heard voices approaching along the passage. His pursuers were closing on him. He raced around the tree, struck the mat with his shoulder, tear ing it down, and stepped into a room as black as the passage had been. He walked forward, sliding his feet along the earthen floor, hoping not to blunder into anything.
A man with a torch rushed through the door behind him.
In the flickering light, Bak spotted an open doorway three paces ahead and a stairway only a pace away. Lunging to ward the stairs, he raced upward and burst out onto the moonlit roof. He swerved aside, narrowly avoiding stum bling over a family sleeping there, taking advantage of the cool night air. The man, jerked rudely from his slumber, sat up and yelled. A baby began to howl. All across the roofs of the interconnected houses, men and women and children sat up and looked around, trying to understand what had awak ened them.
Bak sped across the open expanse, racing around flimsy pavilions and people aroused from sleep, leaping over bra ziers, baked clay pots and dishes, tools, animals and do mestic fowl. His pursuers formed a ragged line behind him, the nearest no more than three paces back. The man carrying the torch was second in line, careless of the light, letting the sparks fly where they would. Dogs barked, men cursed, women screamed threats or demanded their men act, small children whimpered while their older brothers shouted out in excitement.
Bak angled toward the low parapet that marked the edge of the building block and looked into the lane below. The roof was so far above the ground that he would more likely than not break a leg if he jumped. The gap between the buildings was too wide.
“Got him!” a man shouted and raised his staff to swing.
His expression was hard and mean, revealing his deadly in tent.
Bak danced sideways, slammed his baton across the man’s shoulder. As his would-be assailant cried out in agony and fell to his knees, Bak dodged another man’s grasp.
Breathing hard, he swung his baton at a third man, forcing him back against a flimsy pavilion. The structure collapsed, the dry brush atop the shelter tumbled around the nearest pair. One support, a rough pole, broke free and rolled across the rooftop.
Praying it was a good, solid piece of wood, Bak scooped it up, raced toward the parapet, and vaulted into space. He heard the wood crack beneath his weight, but momentum carried him safely over the gap between the buildings.
Later, sitting in the courtyard of his Medjays’ quarters, watching the two men on duty playing knucklebones, Bak let his thoughts return to his near entrapment and narrow es cape. He was following two paths, that of Pentu and the trai tor in his household and that of the possible thefts in the sacred precinct. Which was the one causing the cobra to rear its ugly head? Or were the two paths converging?
Bak went to Pentu’s house the following morning with a renewed determination to lay hands on the man he sought.
He doubted his questions of the previous day had led to the attempt on his life, but one way or another he meant to find out.
The governor was most unhappy when he learned Bak had come to speak with his wife and her sister. He made it clear that the sooner the police officer finished with his household, the happier he would be. After agreeing to tell the women they must cooperate, he summoned a servant to usher his unwanted guest outside the house to a small walled garden, rare in a crowded neighborhood such as this. There Bak had to wait for more than an hour, sometimes sitting, sometimes pacing along neat paths that meandered through an oasis of pruned, shaped, and trained plants and shrubs, none allowed to flourish in their natural form. He thought of leaving more than once, but he, too, wanted the interviews over and done with.
“I know nothing of that Hittite’s death,” Taharet said, sit ting down on a shaded bench beside a small fish pool. “I can’t imagine what gave you the idea that I could help.”
“You were in Hattusa with your husband.” Bak, irritated by the long wait, spoke like a teacher enumerating important points to a callow youth. “Someone who dwelt with you in the envoy’s residence became involved in the politics of the land of Hatti. As a result, Pentu and all his household were recalled to Kemet. Maruwa’s death may well be related to that recall.”
“We returned three years ago. If a connection exists, why was he not slain before now?”
Bak knelt on the opposite side of the pool so he could see her face, which was cool, composed, a picture of studied re finement. Like the garden and the pond, where not a leaf marred the water’s surface, her appearance was faultless. He eyed a small green frog sunning itself on a lily pad and won dered how it dared invade a place of such perfection. “Do you have any idea who in your household might’ve wished to foment trouble in Hatti, and for what reason?”
“My husband is a man of integrity, Lieutenant. I suspect he made the Hittite king look and feel small. I think that king accused someone in our household, offering no name or proof of wrongdoing because none existed, and had us withdrawn so he wouldn’t have to be reminded day after day of his own petty nature.”
“An interesting theory.”
“You sound skeptical, Lieutenant.”
Bak thought her idea absurd. “Did you ever meet Maruwa?”
“I did not.” Her voice was firm, the statement absolute.
Rising to his feet, he said, “While you dwelt in Hattusa, mistress, Pahure obtained for you and your sister several small but desirable items imported into Hatti from the land of Kemet. Did you ever meet the merchant he purchased them from? Zuwapi is his name.”
“What reason would I have to talk to a Hittite merchant?
Or a merchant in Kemet, for that matter. That’s Pahure’s task, one he performs well enough.”
Bak walked a few paces along a path he had trod many times over the past hour. He had to admire the steward, who must surely have the patience of a deity to put up with this woman. Was she the daughter of a nobleman, reared to look down upon all others? Or did she come from baser stock and thought to prove her superiority by belittling all who drew near?
“Do you ever meet priests or scribes who toil in the sa cred precinct of the lord Amon?” Walking back to the pool, he made a silent guess as to her answer. She did not disap point him.
“I’ve met the chief priest and a few of his closest advisers on social occasions.” She flashed a bright smile. “Ha puseneb is such a wonderful man. I’m sorry we won’t see him during the Beautiful Feast of Opet, but as you may or may not know, he’s much too involved with official rituals to celebrate with good and companionable friends, as the rest of us do.”
Before he could congratulate himself on his perspicacity, she added, “You’re not interested in Hapuseneb, are you?
You want to know if I was acquainted with the men who were slain in the sacred precinct.”
“Your husband told you I’d ask,” Bak said, trying not to sound annoyed. Of course Pentu would have warned her; carrying the tale might have earned him a pat on the head.
“We keep few secrets from each other, Lieutenant.”
“And you keep no secrets from your sister, I’d wager.”
She smiled, bowed her head in acknowledgment. “We’re very close, yes.”
Bak snapped a large yellowish blossom from a vine that climbed the wall of the one-story dwelling that abutted the garden. The flower gave off a heavy, slightly musty scent.
“Did you know either the priest Meryamon or the scribe
Woserhet?”
“No, Lieutenant, I didn’t. Neither was of sufficient rank to accompany Hapuseneb.”