The men above shouted a warning and the rope creaked as Pashed swung out over the open shaft. Bak held the torch high, letting him see where he was going. The short, slight man proved surprisingly agile, dropping from the rope before his feet touched the floor. Hands on hips, he looked upward, gauging the depth of the shaft down which they had come. Turning, peering into the horizontal tunnel, he held out his hand for the torch. This was not the first old tomb he had entered, and with no expectation of finding a fresh body, he showed no fear.
Careful not to bump baskets whose age had made them fragile, Bak followed the architect to the burial chamber. It was small, three or four paces to a side, and the ceiling low.
What had once been a magnificent rectangular wooden coffin filled more than half the space. Water had come in, probably more than once, and a vague smell of decay lingered, blending with the faint scent of flowers or aromatic oils. Pottery jars lay scattered about, a few broken but most whole and sealed. Jumbled together in a corner were three small wooden boats and their tiny wooden crews. Beside them sat several wooden boxes containing tiny wooden men and women and animals, tools, jars, furniture. Miniature necessities of a nobleman’s life thrown into disorder.
The coffin had broken apart and much of it rotted away, revealing an inner coffin in an equally poor state. The wrappings on the body were stained and decayed, exposing a portion of the painted plaster mask, one foot whose flesh was gone, leaving behind a broken pile of bones, and a wrinkled and blackened arm wearing two bracelets. Tiny inlaid butterflies adorned one; the second was a wide gold band with three miniature golden cats lying in a row along the top.
Both were exquisite.
As expected, no fresh body shared the chamber with the ancient body.
Bak bent to look closer at the bracelets. The five pieces he had found in Buhen were similar in workmanship to these.
They had been taken from a tomb much like this one, he felt sure. A richer tomb, most likely, but the noble man or woman who had been laid to rest here had gone to the netherworld at about the same time. If he walked in Lieutenant Menna’s sandals. . He did not. He could only suggest that Menna look closer at the ancient burial places in the vicinity of Djeser Djeseru. And he could keep his own eyes open, wide open.
“I must notify Lieutenant Menna of this tomb,” Pashed said, “and I must summon Kaemwaset. They can come together.”
“I’ve met the guard officer, but who is Kaemwaset?”
“A priest in the mansion of the lord Amon in Waset. The first prophet has given him the responsibility for all the rou-tine rituals performed while Djeser Djeseru is being built.
Each time a man is injured, he comes with the physician to offer the necessary incantations that will aid in healing.
Each time we find an old tomb, he utters the necessary prayers before we seal the burial chamber and cover it over.
If the lord Amon smiles upon us, he’ll come long before nightfall.”
Bak thought of the lord Khepre, making his slow progress toward midday. He had seen for himself how quickly Pashed could and would close a tomb, but if a man wished to rob the dead, leaving this one open for even an hour would tempt fate.
“You must assign a guard to stand watch until this sepulcher is closed. The bracelets we see are of great beauty and value. Can you imagine what treasure lies hidden beneath the bandages?”
Bak found the chief scribe Ramose sitting cross-legged on a tightly woven reed mat beneath a lean-to built against the mudbrick wall of a workmen’s hut. His task was to keep track of equipment and supplies, of labor performed and food and objects given in return. Two other scribes shared the burden and the square of shade cast by the palm frond roof. The older one was the large, stooped man who had taken Hori and Kasaya off to meet the chief craftsmen and foremen. The other was a child of twelve or so years, an apprentice who, if appearances did not deceive, was Ramose’s son. Bak had seen the three of them together, standing among the onlookers when Montu’s body had been carried away.
Ramose rose to his feet to greet him. “Welcome to my place of business, Lieutenant. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Because you’re now next in line in importance to Pashed?” Bak smiled to lighten the weight of his words. “Or because when trouble arises on a construction site, the first man to be suspected of wrongdoing is the one who keeps the accounts and minds the store?”
The chief scribe laughed. The pair behind him exchanged an uneasy look.
“Will you take a seat, sir?” Ramose pointed to a low stool he evidently reserved for worthy guests and returned to his mat. “I’m afraid the beer we have is of poor quality, but on a hot day such as this, a bitter brew is better than none.”
He offered a jar, which Bak accepted. The beer on the southern frontier, usually strong and sometimes appalling, had toughened Bak’s palate to a point where he could drink almost anything. He found the warm, thick, acrid liquid a close match to the worst he had ever tasted.
“As you must know,” he said, “Amonked has asked me to look into Montu’s death and find a cause for the many accidents here at Djeser Djeseru.”
“Yes, sir.” The chief scribe was in his middle years and of medium height, neither slim nor heavy. He had short, straight dark hair and the ordinary features of a man easily lost in a crowd.
“Montu’s life was taken by another man,” Bak said.
“So we’ve heard.”
Bak saw not a speck of sadness or regret. Nor did he see sorrow on the faces of the other two scribes. He was reminded of Pashed’s words upon seeing the body: “May the gods be blessed,” he had said. “Do you think his death related to the series of accidents?”
“If he was slain by another man. .” Ramose’s eyes leaped to Bak’s face, sudden concern clouding his features.
“Is there some question about the accidents? Does Amonked believe they were brought about not by carelessness and the whims of the gods, but were deliberate attempts to disrupt construction with injury and death?”
The older scribe looked up from a scroll onto which he was transferring notes from a pile of hand-size limestone flakes. “The workmen talk of a malign spirit.”
Bak gave him a sharp look. Could he, an educated man, truly believe such superstitious nonsense? Or was he jesting? “I seek Montu’s slayer in the company of men, not among the demons of darkness. And if I find the accidents to be something other than what they’ve all along appeared to be, I’ll look for a man, not a spirit.”
Ramose scowled at the old man. “This, sir, is
Amonemhab, father to my first wife, long deceased. He’s a good man, but ofttimes the bane of my existence.”
Looking disdainful, Amonemhab tossed the shard onto a pile of discarded flakes. “Could a man cause so many accidents? I think not. Too many occurred in the light of day with other men looking on.”
“Not all were so straightforward,” Ramose said.
A short burst of metallic clangs drew Bak’s eyes toward a patch of shade beneath a lean-to a dozen or so paces away.
Two metalsmiths, dripping sweat, toiled in the heat of a small pottery furnace, sharpening and repairing tools collected from the workmen. Ramose believed in keeping a close eye on the equipment for which he was responsible.
“With rumors of a malign spirit planting fear in men’s hearts, they might well stumble or fumble or tumble, bringing about any number of accidents.” Bak drank from his beer jar, taking care not to stir up the sediment that lay in the bottom. “I know for a fact that a malign spirit did not slay Montu.”
“He was not well liked,” Ramose admitted.
“I see no sadness among the three of you.”
“Montu was a swine!” the old man said with venom.
Ramose shot a warning look his way. “You must listen to Amonemhab with half an ear, Lieutenant. He’s become outspoken in his dotage and not always rational.”