“Zuwapi said the order to slay me came from you.”
Nehi gaped, stuttered, “I didn’t…” A sudden thought struck; shock registered on his face. “Oh, no!”
“What?” Bak demanded.
“I sometimes passed messages to him, sealed scrolls
Meryamon gave me.”
“Earlier you used the word ‘they.’ Did Meryamon plan the robberies and smuggling, or did someone else lead the gang from afar?”
“Meryamon was a priest, nothing more. What would he know of transporting items of value out of the land of Kemet, of trading such fine objects to men in faraway lands, men willing to pay dearly for them?”
Exchanging a satisfied glance with Karoya, Bak released
Nehi’s chin. “The one who planned the thefts, then, was an other man. He was your leader, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.” Nehi spoke so softly Bak could barely hear.
“Who is he?”
Nehi stared at the ground, mumbled, “Only Meryamon knew his name.”
“And now your friend is dead.”
Tears spilled from Nehi’s eyes, he nodded.
“If you don’t know who this leader of yours was, and
Zuwapi and Antef don’t either, how will you contact him?”
Nehi tried to meet Bak’s eyes but failed. “I guess he’ll contact us.”
His lack of conviction made a lie of the words. He knew as well as Bak that the man had no intention of making him self known. He had slain Meryamon to break the chain, thereby assuring his safety forevermore.
Bak and Psuro walked through the gathering darkness along lanes crowded with men, women, and children, all making merry on this final night of the festival. Their Med jays had gone off with Karoya and the harbor patrolmen to escort the prisoners to the Great Prison of Waset, where they would be held until they stood before the vizier. After judg ment they would return to the prison to await punishment.
“Where are you to meet our men, Psuro?” Bak asked.
“In front of Ipet-resyt. They won’t be long, I’m certain.”
The sergeant stopped in the intersection where they must part company. A soldier stood there, holding high a flaming torch, keeping a wary eye on the people passing by, all talk ing and laughing, happy and excited. “Are you sure you can’t come with me, sir? You’ve earned a night of revelry.”
“I must report to Amonked, tell him of today’s events.”
Bak nudged Psuro, and they stepped out of the way of a half dozen sailors, sauntering arm in arm with no regard for any one in their path. “Early tomorrow, before the festivities be gin in earnest, I must go to Pentu’s dwelling and point a finger at the one who became involved in the politics of
Hatti. Amonked must be told what I mean to say.”
“Will you not join us after you leave him, sir?”
“I’d like to, but no.” Bak laid a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “I must go somewhere to be alone and think.
Something nags at me. Bits of information, statements made that slip away each time I feel them close.”
Chapter Eighteen
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?” Pentu, seated in his armchair on the dais in his spacious audience hall, tried very hard to form a welcoming smile. “Especially at so early an hour.”
Amonked did not return the smile. “We wished to speak with you, you and the members of your household. We knew if we came later, we’d not find you home.”
From Pentu’s appearance, they had caught him dressing in his festival best. He wore a calf-length kilt of fine linen and his eyes were painted, but he had not yet adorned him self with jewelry and wig. Like innumerable other people in
Waset, he and his retinue were readying themselves for the short walk to Ipet-resyt. There they would watch the lord
Amon leave his southern mansion and make his way to the waterfront, where he would board the sacred barge and sail north to Ipet-isut, thereby culminating the Beautiful Feast of
Opet.
“Your presence is always a pleasure,” Pentu said, “but we’ll be far better prepared to receive you later, after the day’s festivities end.”
“Frankly, Pentu, the word ‘pleasure’ does not apply.”
Amonked glanced at Bak. “My young friend can explain.”
A female servant, arranging flowers in a large bowl on the dais, noted his peremptory tone and glanced up at her mas ter. Pentu’s expression was stormy, his body as tense as a
tautly pulled bowstring. Sensing an impending crisis, she rose quickly to her feet. She dropped a blossom, stepped on it in her haste to leave, and departed. The sweet scent of the crushed flower filled the air.
The governor scowled at Bak. “I can’t imagine why you’ve come again, Lieutenant. I thought we were rid of you.”
“I told Bak he wouldn’t need my authority. I believed you to be a fair and courteous man.” Amonked’s voice sharp ened. “It seems I erred.”
Pentu flushed at the rebuke.
“We’ve come to reveal the name of the one who brought about your recall from Hattusa,” Bak said.
“Now look here, young man…”
Amonked raised a hand, silencing him. “I’ve taken the liberty of summoning the members of your household. As soon as they arrive, we’ll begin.”
In less serious circumstances, Bak might have smiled.
Normally unassuming in appearance and behavior,
Amonked could don a cloak of power as easily as his cousin,
Maatkare Hatshepsut, should the need arise. “We’ll not keep you long, sir. What I have to reveal is easily explained.”
“Governor Pentu has all along denied that any member of this household would foment trouble in the land of Hatti.”
Bak, standing with Amonked beside the dais, glanced at
Pentu, who occupied the sole chair on the raised platform.
The governor stared straight forward in stony silence, one hand clutching his long staff of office, the other the arm of his chair. “His refusal to believe in spite of the fact that our pres ent envoy to Hattusa verified the accusation was one of sev eral factors I considered when thinking over the problem.”
Bak eyed the three men-Sitepehu, Netermose, and
Pahure-standing before the dais, and Taharet and Meret, seated side by side on low stools. All but the priest had been interrupted in various stages of adorning themselves for the
festival. Sitepehu, who had to rise early to make the morning offerings to the lord Inheret, wore the full-length kilt, jew elry, and robe of his priesthood; his shaven head gleamed in the light streaming down from a high window. Netermose, who had barely begun to dress, wore nothing but a knee length kilt and broad multicolored collar. Pahure wore a long kilt, broad collar, and bracelets, but had not applied eye paint or donned a wig.
Both women wore lovely white sheaths of the finest linen, but there the resemblance ended. Meret was fully groomed, bewigged, and bejeweled, ready to leave the house. Taharet was partially made up and her hair hastily combed. She wore no jewelry. She had obviously been caught unprepared for guests-or for the necessary accusa tions. Her discomfort at having to show herself when not looking her best was apparent, a gift from the gods Bak had not expected.
“Of more significance,” he went on, “was mistress
Taharet’s sudden disapproval of me and her refusal to allow me to speak with mistress Meret.”
“You’re a common soldier,” Taharet said, her nose high in the air. “Unworthy of my sister.” She was clearly annoyed at not being provided with a chair beside her husband, a po sition of honor due to the mistress of the house. A momen tary oversight on Pentu’s part that Bak and Amonked had reinforced by suggesting stools for the women.
“So you would have me believe,” Bak said, bowing his head in mock deference.
She opened her mouth as if to reply, but Meret took her hand and squeezed it, cutting off whatever she meant to say.