“You’re no longer boys,” Bak said. “You must learn to guard your tongues.”
“Yes, sir,” Hori and Kasaya chorused.
Shouts drew their attention to the quarry north of the causeway, a foreman yelling at men pulling a sledge laden with a single massive block of stone up a steep ramp from its depths. Bak eyed the huge, irregular hole. The thuds of mallets on chisels carried on the air, but he could not see the men toiling below. The bottom was too deep. Was this the quarry from which stone was taken for the temple? he wondered. Or was it of too poor a quality? Had it been used instead to level the causeway, filling the low spots, making the ascent smooth and gradual?
“Most of the men who toil at our sovereign’s new temple are simple souls from the countryside. Whatever you say, they’ll take as fact. You must give them no reason for misunderstanding.”
“What questions shall we ask?” Kasaya had accompanied Bak more than once on a quest for a slayer. Reality miti-gated his enthusiasm, but not entirely. He was too glad to be released from his parents’ dwelling.
“Start first by showing interest in the men’s tasks,” he said. “No matter how high or low, they’re sure to enjoy speaking of their accomplishments. When you’re certain they’re well satisfied with themselves and with you, direct the conversation toward the many accidents, the malign spirit, the chief architect and craftsmen and foremen. After you’ve led them along the path of your choice, let their talk go where it will. You never know what they might reveal.”
The trio walked across the sunny terrace, weaving a path through the rough and not so rough blocks of stone and the men who were completing the various architectural elements so they could be positioned within the temple. The sand felt hot beneath their feet and the men they passed reeked of sweat. Hori and Kasaya looked upon the scene wide-eyed and enthralled. The workmen looked furtively upon them, very much aware of who they were. Bak could almost feel their apprehension, their mistrust of the authority he and his men represented.
He wished Imsiba were with him, or another, equally experienced man. He knew well Kasaya’s response to adversity, knew his faults and strengths, the way he thought, the way he fought. He had no doubt the Medjay would give his life for him if need be. Hori was another matter. He knew the youth only in the safety of the garrison, a young man wed to his scribal pallet, ever willing to do what had to be done, one whose heart was generous and whose good humor was neverending. A young man with no training in the arts of war, one whose physical courage was untried and unknown.
With luck and the help of the gods, Hori’s bravery and stamina would not be tested while they set about snaring Montu’s slayer and discovering the reason for the many accidents.
A workman told them they would find Pashed at the base of the southern retaining wall, and so they did. He stood with the foreman Seked near the mouth of the tomb in which Montu’s body had been found, watching a line of boys carrying baskets of sand and rubble to the hole, where a second chain of youths relayed them inside and sent out the emptied baskets for another load. Men were laying foundation stones to within a pace or so of the hole, anticipating the moment when the tomb shaft would be packed with earth and they could build over it. As Bak and his men approached, every eye turned their way. One boy stumbled, the youth behind him paused, the next in line bumped into him. Dirt rained from his basket.
Seked shouted a curse to focus their attention on their task, nodded a greeting to the newcomers, and moved a dozen or so paces away to stand at the base of a rubble ramp built along a segment of wall raised almost to its completed height. Shading his eyes with a hand, he looked up at two men at the top, who shoved a heavy block of stone off a sledge and into position. The front and upper surfaces of the stone, like those of its neighbors, had not yet been smoothed so facing stones could be laid in front of them. Other small crews were scattered along the top of the ramp, the nearest chipping away the rough surfaces, the next installing facing stones, the third dressing them. The ramp would be raised as each new course was completed.
Farther west, near the point where the wall joined the retaining wall that supported the mound on which the new shrine of the lady Hathor would be built, the rubble ramps had been removed and scaffolds built for the men who were doing the fine detail work. One crew added the finishing touches to plinths with recessed paneling, while others were carving and polishing deep reliefs of the royal falcon and cobra located at regular intervals high upon the wall.
Pashed’s greeting was unenthusiastic but resigned. The wrinkles in his brow looked deeper than before, his general air more long-suffering and harried.
He gestured toward the line of youths. “We need to go on with the retaining wall. I trust you have no objection to our filling the shaft?”
“None.”
Turning his back so no one but Bak would hear, Pashed murmured, “I feared if we allowed too much time to pass, the men would convince themselves that Montu’s shade might in anger come back to the tomb and do them harm.”
Bak spoke as softly as the architect. “I understand. Djeser Djeseru doesn’t need another malign spirit.” Raising his voice to a normal level, he introduced Hori and Kasaya.
“They’ll serve as my right hand and my left. I wish them to go where they want unimpeded, to ask what they will and be answered with the truth.”
Pashed eyed the pair critically. “I’ll not tolerate a disruption of the work.”
“They’ll not intrude. If they do, they’ll answer to me.”
Not entirely satisfied, or so he looked, Pashed beckoned to a stoop-shouldered, white-haired scribe squatting in a narrow slice of shade beside the wall. The elderly man, his eyes sharp and curious, dropped a limestone chip as big as his hand into a basket filled with bronze tools, laid his scribal pallet on top, and came forward. On any construction site, Bak knew, one of the first tasks of each day was that of the scribe, who had to distribute tools where needed and take back in return those in need of repair or sharpening, recording each transaction as he did so.
“You must take these men to the foremen and chief craftsmen, Amonemhab. Tell them. .” Pashed repeated Bak’s every word even though the scribe, like all who toiled nearby, had certainly heard.
With the good humor of a man accustomed to going about his business unseen by the mighty, the scribe led Hori and Kasaya away, taking his basket with him and the tools for which he would be held accountable. After a few paces he realized Bak was not with them. He paused and looked back, waiting.
Bak waved them away. “I must speak with you, Pashed.”
“Me? Why me?” The architect tried to appear surprised, but as the sole remaining man of authority who toiled daily at Djeser Djeseru, he had to have known he would be the first to be questioned.
Taking him by the upper arm, Bak ushered him to an open stretch of sand well out of hearing distance of the many curious individuals toiling near the wall. Pashed’s stride was quick and jerky, agitated.
Bak hid a smile. The architect was clearly upset, but he was also a man of purpose, and that purpose was to complete the construction of Djeser Djeseru. “You made it clear when you were speaking with Amonked yesterday that you didn’t like Montu, that you thought him a man who shirked his duty.”
“I didn’t slay him, if that’s what you think,” Pashed said, indignant.
“I’m not saying you did. But if I’m to lay hands on the man who took his life, I must speak with everyone who knew him, you included.” Bak could not remember how many times he had given the same assurance since walking at the head of the Medjay police at Buhen.