“He now and again found items lost from caravans.” She dropped the stone, reached into the hole, and pulled out a dusty linen pouch. “And sometimes a dead or straying donkey laden with trade goods.”
“He kept what he found?”
Her voice took on a defensive note. “As would any man who had no knowledge of the rightful owner. My husband was not a thief.”
“I’ve heard nothing to his discredit,” Bak assured her. “All who knew him liked and respected him, and I’ve no desire to blacken his name.” He reached down to help her out of the cellar. “But I must have the truth.”
She shoved the cloth bag into his hand and turned away, her back straight, taut. Bak had an idea she was crying.
He broke the cord around the neck of the pouch and poured the contents onto the floor. Beads and small amulets of gold, lapis lazuli, turquoise, and carnelian cascaded out like colorful drops of water. Mixed among them were six identical unadorned gold bangles and an ancient necklace, four strands of tightly strung gold disc beads fastened together to lie flat on the breast.
Bak whistled. “Beautiful! Very distinctive!” He eyed her back, tried not to see the tremor of her shoulders. “How did your husband, a man of no worldly experience, ever hope to dispose of these objects without drawing the attention of authority?”
“He knew a man who sailed to Abu, and he thought someday to go with him.” Her voice was husky, thick with tears. “He hoped there to lose himself in the crowd, to be one man among many trading precious objects from the south.”
Ramose, Bak thought. Did the captain know of this small treasure, or was he merely to be a means to an end? “These were taken from a tomb. What did he glean from passing caravans?”
She whirled around, eyes aglitter with tears and anger.
“Will you take from me all he left behind, even my memories of him?”
Allowing him no answer, she scooped up the stone and swung it at the shoulder of a large storage jar. The baked clay shattered, letting the contents tumble to the floor, releasing the scents of innumerable herbs and spices and exotic perfumes from individual packets of various sizes, each distinguished from the rest by a drawing of the bush or tree from which its contents came.
She dropped to her knees and sobbed aloud, terrified of the fate she feared awaited her. Like the headman Pahuro in the village north of Buhen, she fully expected to suffer the anger of the gods and the wrath of Kemet. Irrational, Bak 156 / Lauren Haney thought, in light of his promise not to punish her, but under-standable. To fear the mighty and the distant was often easier than facing the surrounding world with its visible pit-falls. She had been invited to share Penhet’s abundance, but had no faith in her good fortune.
He reached out to draw her from the cellar. She came without a word, her resistance broken. Letting himself down in her place, he inspected the remainder of the jars. One he had thought held fish contained exactly that, the second held bright and exotic feathers from far to the south. One reddish jar held salt, another oil for cooking, a third the strings for Intef’s bow. The last contained three ostrich eggs. The walls, floor, and ceiling contained no further hiding places.
Returning to the room above, he scooped up a handful of beads and amulets. He hesitated, letting the certainty grow in his heart that what he meant to do was right. When no doubt remained, he slit a small hole in a palm-sized bag of cinnamon and forced inside more than a dozen of the gold and blue and red trinkets. “These, mistress, are yours,” he said, thrusting the bag into her hand. “The rest belong to our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut.”
“Shall I summon mistress Rennefer from her cell?” Commandant Thuty demanded, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ve no great desire to judge her. Perhaps you’d like to do it for me.”
“No, sir.” Bak resisted the urge to shift from one foot to the other, to clear his throat. He had reported his interview with Nehi, as was right and proper, but instead of showing pleasure with the information he had gained and the items he had recovered, Thuty had focused on what should have been, to Bak’s way of thinking, an act of minor significance.
“If you’d seen that poor farm, those small toiling children, and the fear in mistress Nehi’s heart that she might have to go back…Well, allowing her to keep a few baubles seemed a right and proper thing to do.”
Thuty’s voice grew harsh, cutting. “Tell me, Lieutenant, do you mean to step into my footsteps, or have you set your sights higher? Is it the lord Amon you hope to displace?”
Bak’s heart chilled. Did Thuty really believe him so covetous of power? Unless his tight-lipped glare deceived, he did.
Bak strode forward, crossing the commandant’s private reception room in three steps, and whipped his baton of office from under his arm. Holding it flat in both hands, he offered it to the seated officer. “If you so mistrust my motives, sir, I must resign my office.”
Thuty recoiled from the proffered object. Tearing his eyes from the baton, he gave Bak a long, hard look. “You’d go back to Kemet in disgrace rather than admit your error?”
“You’ve a large family, sir. What would you have done in my place?”
Thuty sat quite still, staring. Bak feared he had gone too far. The commandant’s disposition was often erratic, but not usually so volatile.
Thuty’s expression softened. He barked a short, not un-friendly laugh. “Impertinent young pup!”
“Yes, sir.” Bak’s bones turned to water, weak with relief.
“A word of advice, Lieutenant.” Thuty, stood up, forcing Bak backward, and tapped the baton in his hands. “You must look to your baton of office as an object hard won, one not lightly sacrificed on the altar of good intentions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thuty strode to the courtyard door, stepping over balls and pull toys and game pieces strewn across the floor, and looked outside. The commandant’s quarters were unusually placid, with his children tucked away for their afternoon naps and the women weaving or cooking or grinding grain or performing a multitude of other tasks required in the busy household. The odor of baking bread wafted through the door on a light breeze that tempered the heat of the day. A woman’s soft laughter now and again rose above the low, rhythmic thunk of a loom.
Bak had come to the building only to find himself already summoned and Nebwa expected momentarily. He had not thought to find Thuty so quick to anger, his temper storm-ridden and unstable.
“Where’s Nebwa?” Thuty growled. “I summoned him midmorning. He’s had plenty of time to get here.”
“I imagine something delayed him at Kor, sir.”
Thuty gave the younger officer a cool look. “He sailed into Buhen an hour ago and went straight to his home and wife.
Now I suppose he can’t drag himself from her side.” He paced the length of the room, stopped at the table beside his chair, and scowled at a partially unrolled scroll spread across its surface. “The two of you are much alike,” he growled.
“Good, competent officers, but each with a will of his own, a streak of independence that will one day turn my hair gray.”
“Nonsense.” Nebwa burst into the room, clapped Bak on the shoulder, flashed a smile at the commandant. “I can think of no more worthy an asset than independence. It sets apart a man of ability, making him truly great at all he seeks to accomplish.”
Stifling a laugh, Bak nudged his friend with an elbow, hoping to silence him.
The commandant gave Nebwa a long, exasperated look, but the burst of temper Bak expected failed to materialize.
Instead, Thuty clamped his mouth shut, walked around the table to sit in his armchair, and motioned vaguely toward a couple of stools across the room. When the younger officers were seated before him, he reached for the scroll on the table.
As he pulled it from beneath the stones holding it open, its leading edge curled into place, forming a tight roll. Its contents, Bak decided, must be the reason for the commandant’s irascibility.