“Ideal for our purpose,” Bak said, looking around. “Do you use this place often?”
“Several times a year, the most recent being two days be fore the festival began.” Karoya watched one of his ser geants and Psuro climb onto the roof of the house. Three of
Bak’s Medjays were posted near the main gate and at two smaller exits, while the remainder and a few members of the harbor patrol were hunkered down in the shade of the lean to. “A ship’s crew, besotted and mean, staggered through the market, knocking over stalls and destroying merchandise.
They spent five days here while the master of their vessel gathered together the goods to replace the loss and more.
Needless to say, they’re now indentured to him for many years to come.”
Bak’s eyes came to rest on the kilns. “I suggest we heat up a furnace. I can think of no better an incentive than fire to set men’s tongues to wagging.”
Karoya’s men outdid themselves. Four harbor patrolmen hustled their prisoner through the gate in less than an hour.
Wooden manacles pinned his hands behind his back and a swath of linen had been wound around his head and shoul ders, hiding his identity from all who walked the busy streets and lanes. His clothing was disheveled and specks of red dotted the front of his shift. A patch of color on the shroud around his head spoke of a bloody nose. Evidently he had not come willingly.
“Here he is, sir,” one of the patrolmen said, and shoved his prisoner toward the officers.
The man stumbled, lost his balance, fell to his knees. With his head covered, Bak could not tell if he was the gravel voiced swarthy man he believed to be Zuwapi.
“Well done,” Karoya said, “and the others?”
“As soon as we tamed this one, Sergeant Mose and his men went after them.”
“Excellent.” Karoya smiled at Bak. “Shall we see what we’ve snared?”
So saying, he signaled the patrolmen to unwrap the man’s head. Two men moved in. One, taking no trouble to be gen tle, unwound the linen and snatched it away. The second man grabbed an arm and jerked the prisoner to his feet.
His eyes darted toward Bak. He gaped. “You! No!”
The gravelly voice set Bak’s blood to boiling. He formed his most menacing smile. “Zuwapi. At last we meet in the light of the lord Re.”
The Hittite jerked away from the man gripping his arm and ran toward the main gate. The other patrolman leaped after him, the length of linen trailing in the dirt. Made clumsy by his shackled hands, the prisoner’s gait was awk ward, not fast enough. His pursuer rapidly gained on him, caught the loose end of the linen in his free hand, and flung it over his quarry’s head, catching him by the neck and pulling him backward until he fell to the ground in a puff of dust. He sat up and spewed out invective in his own tongue, a string of curses filled with hate. The patrolman cuffed him hard across the side of the head, silencing him.
Bak crossed the yard to where the prisoner sat and stood before him, legs spread wide, tapping his baton of office against his calf. “You are the Hittite trader Zuwapi, are you not?”
“My name is of no concern to you,” the man growled.
“You’ve tried three times to slay me.” Bak’s tender head and ribs, the fire in his wrists, added menace to his voice.
“Do I not have the right to know who wants me dead, and for what reason?”
The man looked up at Bak with the scorn he might reserve for an insect. “I’m a guest in the land of Kemet. You’ve no authority to demand anything of me.”
Bak eyed the prisoner’s shift, made of the finest of fabrics, and the broad gold bracelets he wore. His dress and jewelry, his arrogance, said he was a man of substance in Hatti. But
Hatti was not Kemet. Bak placed the tip of his baton on the man’s breastbone and shoved hard. The prisoner sprawled in the dust, half on his side. Fury suffused his face and he spat at Bak’s feet. Muttering an oath, the patrolman placed a foot against the nape of his neck and shoved him downward.
“You must speak your name,” Bak demanded. “Now!”
The prisoner wiggled to get free. The patrolman pressed harder, forcing his face into the dirt.
“I am Zuwapi!” The Hittite’s voice pulsed with anger.
“I’m from Hattusa, where I’m a highly regarded merchant.
You can’t treat me like this!”
The main gate swung open and the patrol sergeant Mose came through. Behind him, two patrolmen held Captain An tef, red-faced and sputtering, between them. The rest of the unit guarded a long line of bound prisoners, the crew of An tef’s ship. A rope tied around each man’s neck fastened them together like widely spaced amulets on a cord.
“Let him rise,” Bak told the patrolman holding Zuwapi down. “He must see his fellow prisoners and they must see him.”
Captain Antef looked their way. His face paled and he paused, as if unable to take the next step. A guard urged him on with the butt of his spear.
At the same time, one of the sailors spotted Bak and barked a startled oath. The next in line cried out in horror, swung around and tried to run, nearly strangling himself and the prisoners ahead and behind him. A third began to whim per and a fourth covered terrified eyes with his bound hands.
Their guards prodded them forward. Fear added speed to their pace and the ragged line filed into the stable.
The sailors’ fright at seeing Bak alive and well, their obvi ous conviction that they were looking at a spirit from the netherworld, was better than a confession as far as he was concerned. His enjoyment of the moment was torn asunder by another long stream of curses from Zuwapi.
“Take him into the house,” he said. “We’ll talk next to
Captain Antef.”
“I’m not a smuggler, I tell you.” Sweat poured from An tef’s face, whether from fear, his close proximity to the kiln, or the hot breath of the lord Re reaching into the unshaded yard, Bak could not tell.
He pointed his baton at the prisoner, made his tone hard and cold. “The cargo stowed on the deck of your ship in cludes fine linen, ritual vessels, aromatic oils and any num ber of other items stolen from the storehouses of the lord
Amon. That you cannot deny.”
“You’ve been sailing the Great Green Sea for a long time, sir,” Karoya said in a softer, kinder tone. “I find it difficult to believe you’d take such a risk.”
“I know nothing about anything stolen from the sacred precinct. Or from anywhere else, for that matter.”
“I’ve had an auditor from the royal house look at past rec ords of your voyages,” Bak said, taking his turn. “Each and every time you’ve sailed to Ugarit over the past three years, you’ve hauled items few noblemen and certainly no ordinary men could legitimately lay their hands on so often and in such large quantities.”
No one had ever noticed, Thanuny had explained, because no single inspector had examined Antef’s cargo time after time. As a result, the consistency had escaped detection.
“I’m the master of a ship, not a customs inspector.” The captain wiped the sweat from his brow and edged away from the kiln. “You can’t expect me to examine every object brought on board. And if I did, how would I know if some thing was stolen?”
“You wouldn’t know,” Karoya said sympathetically, “but did you not wonder about the many valuable items you saw?”
Instead of taking advantage of the opening the officer had given him, Antef merely shrugged. “Why should I? Cargo is cargo, nothing more.”
Bak stepped closer to the captain, forcing him back to ward the kiln. The heat was making his head ache and his raw wrists burn. The game he and Karoya were playing did not sit well with him, but intimidation, he felt, was far more apt to get a true answer than a beating with the cudgel. “I’ve been told that Zuwapi collects his goods in a storehouse near the waterfront and waits until you arrive to ship them. Why would he do that if he didn’t trust you to keep your mouth shut?”