Lauren Haney: A Vile Justice

"Oh, come now, Lieutenant. Why would he want dead the one man who…" Simut noticed the look of conviction on Bak's face and his voice tailed off. He shook his head, utterly mystified

Pouring beer into his drinking bowl, Bak admitted, "To be quite honest, I don't know. I suspect he wanted to prevent me from learning the secret he's refused all along to divulge."

"A secret born in that fatal sandstorm five years ago." "So I believe."

"I wish I could help you, but I know almost nothing of that tempest." Simut took a bite of cake, swallowed it, added, "What little I do know I've told you."

"Have you?" Bak's voice carried an edge of cynicism. Simut frowned. "What are you implying, Lieutenant?" Bak set bowl and jar on the table, stood up, and strode to the door. Abruptly he swung around. "You told me of a nephew who died in the storm, a young man you loved as a son. Yet you neglected to mention that he was Nebmose, the man who owned the villa Djehuty claimed for the royal house and took as his own."

"I thought…" The scribe blinked, taken aback by Bak's accusing stance and tone. "Well, I… I guess I just assumed you knew."

"You told me you once resented Djehuty for returning alive, but you no longer harbor the feeling. What of Nebmose's villa? That lovely house and outbuildings now sitting idle except for an infrequent lodger. And the farmland north of this city. An estate most men would covet."

Simut gave him a pained look. "I'm satisfied with my lot, Lieutenant."

Bak walked to the niche holding the ancestor bust. A bowl for burning incense stood before the image. Someone had dropped a broken needle into the small mound of cold ashes, indicating a lack of reverence he could not imagine in the individual tending Nebmose's shrine. "Forgive my poor manners, Simut. My time is running out and I'm floundering.

The scribe acknowledged the apology with a stiff smile. "If Nebmose had lived, he'd've wed and had a son of his own. As it was, he left no one, nor did he ever document his wishes with respect to his property. Djehuty has no more right to it than I, but at least now it'll go to mistress Khawet and not a stranger."

Bak tore his eyes from the small, red-painted figure and stared at Simut, barely daring to breathe. The scribe's unmistakable belief that Khawet was entitled to Nebmose's property came close to verifying the suspicion that had been growing in his thoughts all morning. An idea he. had gone out of his way to deny but must now face.

Like the young man who had lived in the adjoining villa, Khawet would have been about twenty years of age when the sandstorm occurred. Close in age, thrown together by proximity, similar in their noble heritage, they most likely would have developed a strong bond. A marriage would have been logical, a merging of the two estates.

Though certain he now knew the answer, Bak asked, "Who's leaving offerings in Nebmose's family shrine?" "She is. Khawet."

"And she's caring for the house and garden?"

"She's always kept close watch on the servants who toil there, yes."

Releasing a long pent-up breath, Bak dropped onto his stool. "The lord Amon preserve-me for being so dense!" Simut blinked, not understanding.

"I knew she wed Ineni at the age of twenty," Bak explained, "much later in life than most, but I-assumed Djehuty held her close. I should've realized by the way she treats her husband that he was second best, that another man took pride of place in her heart. Ineni himself told me so, but I let his words pass over my head as a cloud does." His eyes leaped toward Simut. "Were she and Nebmose wed when he died?"

"The marriage contract had yet to be witnessed and sealed.".

"Why wait so long past marriageable age when they dwelt so close together?" Bak could not keep the growing excitement out of his voice.

Simut, sensing the younger man's agitation, answered with alacrity. "As Nebmose approached manhood, his father sent him to the royal house in Waset to rub shoulders with his equals. Khawet now and again accompanied her father to the capital, and there she and the young man consummated their love. Or so I believe. He entered the service of an envoy to faroff Naharin, and she vowed to await his return. I, for one, thanked the lord Amon when he came back with no other wife, but he was as true to her as she was to him.

"Negotiations had been concluded and the marriage contract prepared when Nebmose's father died. They waited to wed until the period of mounting had passed. Before they could do so, Djehuty summoned his troops, and they marched off to Uahtrest to punish the desert tribesmen. Nebmose never returned, and Khawet wed Ineni instead."

"At Djehuty's insistence," Bak said in a grim voice. "Ineni knew of her love for Nebmose and wanted to wait. Djehuty issued an ultimatum."

The two men stared at each other, the scribe with a dawning awareness, Bak with growing conviction. Many of the answers he had sought for so long fell into place, even Djehuty's attempts to slay him. The governor had a secret, probably one he was hiding from Khawet, and he had feared Bak would reveal it. Perhaps he had contributed more directly to Nebmose's death than mere negligence as a commander. Khawet had learned that secret-or had a good idea what it was-probably from Hatnofer. She had decided to seek revenge. Djehuty, though a master of self-delusion, had at some point coma, to suspect his daughter of wishing him dead.

No wonder he was ill. No wonder…

"By the beard of Amon!" Bak shot to his feet. "She's with her father now! Giving him herbal broth to soothe his stomach!"

"This is only the ninth day!" Simut was clutching at air and he knew it. "She wouldn't spoil her pattern now! Would she?"

Bak leaped toward the door. "Go summon a physician. Quickly!"

Racing up the stairs to the second story of the governor's villa, Bak spotted Amonhotep seated, head bowed, hands locked between his knees, on a stool in Djehuty's private reception room. The aide, his face drawn and pinched with worry, looked a perfect picture of dejection and exhaustion. "Where's mistress Khawet?" Bak demanded.

Amonhotep, too tired to. think clearly, failed to notice the urgency in his voice. "Amethu came not long ago, wanting to know of Djehuty's health. She spoke with him briefly. I think they talked of you and of Nebmose's villa and of Nebmose himself."

Bak muttered a curse. When he had spoken with the steward, he had seen no reason to urge silence. Now it was too late. "And then?"

"After Amethu left, she had me take a brazier out on the roof. When I had the fire going, she took the herbs I'd brought from the market, added others she already had, and made a fresh broth. She gave some to her father, which soothed his stomach, and he slept. She then went away, saying she had other tasks to perform."

Bak cursed the aide's innocence, and his own belated realization of the truth. "I must see Djehuty."

"When last I looked, he was sleeping."

Bak strode to the door. "We must awaken him." "Khawet said sleep is the best medicine a man can have." "Lieutenant!" Bak barked out the word, gaining the young officer's full attention. "Mistress Khawet is the slayer I've been seeking."

"But… But she's Djehuty's daughter!"

"Are you going to sit here in this room, immobilized by disbelief, while he lies dying not twenty paces away?" With doubt plain on his face, Amonhotep led the way to the governor's bedchamber. To his credit he did not tarry.

The room was dark, with most of the windows covered with reed mats; and smelled strongly of sweat and vomit.

Bak tore down the mats, admitting light, and hurried to the bed. Djehuty lay on his back, covered to the waist with a sheet. His right shoulder and the side of his face were bathed in vomit where he had half turned to throw up. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his pallid body hot to the touch and so wet the sheet clung to him. His breathing was loud and hoarse, the pulse of life in his wrist irregular.