Zuwapi’s voice rose in pitch, losing its roughness. “How many times must I tell you? I’ve slain no one.”
“If you didn’t, you surely suspected their deaths were re lated to the thefts in the sacred precinct.”
“Not at first. Not until Meryamon was slain. Then…” He hesitated, appeared to reach a decision, said, “I didn’t know what to think.”
Bak did not believe him for an instant. “If you didn’t slay them, you must know who did.”
Karoya, equally skeptical, dropped his role as mediator.
He signaled Kasaya, who shoved Zuwapi’s hand closer to the burning coals.
“Don’t!” Sweat reeking of fear poured from the Hittite.
“We don’t wish to maim you,” Karoya said, “but we must if you don’t tell us who took those men’s lives.”
Kasaya shifted forward as if readying himself to shove the
Hittite’s hand onto the coals.
“Nehi.” Zuwapi stared into the furnace and swallowed hard. “He’s the man you saw, the one with red hair. He said he didn’t slay them, but he must’ve.” The Hittite’s eyes darted to ward Bak. “He’s the man who told me I must get rid of you.”
“Where can we find him?” Karoya asked.
“He toils at the harbor. He’s overseer of the men who carry newly arrived offerings from the ships to the store houses of Amon.”
At a nod from Bak, Kasaya allowed Zuwapi to pull his hand back, but not so far that his confidence would return.
Rubbing it as if it had truly been burned, the Hittite gave the two officers a wounded look. Bak could not sympathize. In spite of the pain inflicted upon him, he disliked acting the bully, but the quick results testified to its effectiveness.
“Who planned the robberies?” he asked.
Zuwapi turned morose. “I was never told, but Nehi must’ve. Either him or Meryamon.”
Bak could not credit the young priest with so important a role. “You weren’t curious?”
“I was.” Zuwapi spoke through gritted teeth, as if holding inside a resentment that had been building for months. “I tried many times to guess his name with no success, even tried prying the name from Nehi. I failed. He would say nothing. Nothing, I tell you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Most of the cargo vessels moored along the waterfront had arrived long before the Beautiful Feast of Opet began, al lowing plenty of time to unload before the temptations of the festival drew crews and workmen away from more serious endeavors. As a result, Bak thought it best to start their search for Nehi in the sacred precinct.
“It can’t be true.” Nebamon, overseer of the storehouses from which many of the ritual objects had been stolen, flung a perplexed look at Bak, Karoya, and Thanuny. “Meryamon was such a nice young man, so helpful. Utterly devoted to the lord Amon.”
“We believe he not only took objects over an extended pe riod of time, but he also altered the records to hide his wrongdoing and that of another man.” The auditor tapped a large scroll-filled basket, so heavy the servant carrying it had both arms wrapped firmly around it. “Each and every docu ment in this container has been tampered with.”
“So many?” Nebamon gulped.
Bak glanced at Sergeant Psuro, standing in the doorway of the small walled courtyard, barring entry or exit. He did not mistrust Nebamon, but thought it best to take precau tions lest he erred. “We believe Nehi, in his position as over seer of the workmen who carry offerings from incoming ships to the storehouses of Amon, was also making off with items meant to be used in the sacred rituals.”
“Nehi?” Nebamon frowned, doubtful. “A most congenial man. All who know him like him.”
“When I spoke with you several days ago, I told you of a red-haired man I saw you talking with while standing in the courtyard in front of Ipet-resyt. The opening procession had entered the sacred precinct and there you were, side by side, watching a group of Hittite acrobats. That man had to have been Nehi, yet when I asked, you denied knowing him.”
“Did I?” Nebamon raised both hands and ran his fingers through the curly white hair above his ears. “I don’t remem ber seeing him there-the courtyard was teeming with peo ple, if you recall-but perhaps we exchanged a few trifling words.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Come with me. We must ask the scribe who deals with these people.”
“I should’ve guessed he dwelt here.” Bak stood outside the gate through which he and Amonked had, ten days be fore, entered the sacred precinct to view Woserhet’s body.
He eyed the blank white walls of the interconnected houses that lay in the shadow of the massive wall surrounding the lord Amon’s domain. He remembered well chasing the red haired man through that confusing warren of narrow lanes.
“Where do we go from here?”
Psuro could neither read nor write, but his memory was faultless. “According to the scribe, we enter the leftmost lane, turn right at the second intersection, left at the next lane, pass beneath a wooden lintel, and turn right again at the next intersecting lane. His dwelling will be behind the fourth doorway to the right.”
Signaling the sergeant to lead the way, Bak followed with
Karoya. A dozen of his Medjays and an equal number of harbor patrolmen hurried after them. Upon learning where
Nehi dwelt, he had suggested they summon extra men.
He stopped at the lintel, while Psuro went on ahead, and gathered the men around. “You all know what you’re to do, but I must warn you.” He looked from one to another, his ex pression stern. “He knows these lanes far better than we do.
If he runs, don’t follow him in a line like cattle being led to slaughter. Spread out into the surrounding lanes. We must not let him get away.”
They melted into the shadows of a nearby lane, where they waited in silence until Psuro returned.
“He’s home,” the sergeant reported. “Sleeping late after a night of revelry, so says an old woman in the adjoining house.”
Bak thanked the lord Amon that they would not have to lie in wait. “Let’s go.”
The sergeant and a dozen men hurried off to surround the block. Karoya took six others to close off the nearby lanes.
Bak and the remainder waited. When they heard two short, sharp whistles, Psuro’s signal and Karoya’s, they strode to ward the fourth doorway to the right. They were a dozen steps away when the red-haired man stepped into the lane, yawning, scratching his head. He saw Bak, his mouth dropped open, he spun around and leaped inside. Bak plunged into the dark dwelling, glimpsed his quarry at the top of the stairs leading to the roof. Yelling to his men to spread out and watch the doors of the other houses, he raced upward.
Nehi sped across the flat, white rooftop, leaping over bas kets and bowls; bounding over fish laid out to dry; veering around small pavilions occupied by women spinning and weaving, grinding grain, and performing innumerable other household tasks while they tended their small children. He reached the opposite side of the block, looked down into the lane, saw the men below and cried out an oath. He ran to the right and looked into a side lane. Seeing more men waiting to snare him, he slumped down onto the roof, head bowed, gasping for breath. Bak called for manacles and within mo ments Nehi was their prisoner.
As soon as Bak got his first good look at Nehi, he knew the redhead had played no major role in the robberies. He was, like Meryamon, less than twenty years of age. “You knew Meryamon.”
The young man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowed tears. The unexpected capture, the mere threat of burning, had completely unmanned him, turning him into the sobbing child he once had been. “We grew to manhood together. In Abedju. We were childhood playmates, the best of friends.”
He seemed so lacking in guile, so genuine, that Bak al most sympathized with him. Almost. “The two of you stole many valuable objects from the lord Amon.”
“We stole, yes.” Sniffing back tears, Nehi spoke out read ily, a young man eager to please men more senior in age and rank. “Each time I saw a ritual vessel or a jar of aromatic oil or anything else of value, if I could find a way to take it un seen, I did so. Meryamon took objects from the storehouses themselves, and he also altered the records so no one would know of his crime or mine.”