Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

Beautiful Feast of Opet, all who could get close enough could witness their rulers’ public subjugation to their divine father.

Bak vividly remembered the first time he had seen the of fering ritual, the disappointment he had felt. The festival had been much less grand during the reign of Akheperenre

Thutmose, the ritual not so formalized. Bak had been a child of ten or so years, grown too large to sit on his father’s shoulders. The older man had knelt so his son could stand on his knee and look around the heads of the multitudes.

The lord Amon had been concealed within his golden shrine, their sovereign kneeling, hidden by the crowd. He had seen nothing.

“Who do you think slew him, sir?” Hori asked.

Kasaya laughed. “How would Lieutenant Bak know that?

He hasn’t met anyone worthy of suspicion.”

“He met Woserhet’s wife.”

“Why would she slay him in the sacred precinct when she could much easier have slain him at home?”

Bak spotted Meryamon ahead, standing in the shade of a grove of date palms that towered over the sixth barque sanc tuary. The young priest was looking one way and then an other, studying the people walking along the processional way, and peering down the lanes that ended near the sanctu ary. He had been in such a hurry to leave the sacred precinct, yet here he was, apparently waiting for someone. A woman perhaps?

Hori flung a contemptuous look at the young Medjay.

“She wouldn’t want to point a finger at herself. Which she’d be doing if she cut his throat while he lay sleeping.”

“Cut his throat!” Kasaya shook his head in disgust. “A woman cut a man’s throat? No!”

Bak groaned inwardly. The pair’s squabbling seemed never to end. Fortunately neither took the other seriously and their friendship remained firm.

“If she was angry enough…” Hori turned to Bak. “Is

Woserhet’s wife a large woman, sir?”

“She’s small and slight. I suppose she could’ve slain him in the heat of anger, but I doubt it.” Bak felt a trickle of sweat working its way down his breastbone, his mouth felt as dry as the desert, and his stomach as empty as the barren wastes. Tearing his thoughts from himself, he thought over his conversation with Ashayet. “She was very upset when I told her of his death, and I saw no pretense in her sobbing.

After she collected herself, she became angry, and that, too, was no sham.” He shook his head. “No, she did not slay her husband, of that I’m convinced.”

“What of the priest Meryamon?” Hori asked, unaware of the fact that they were approaching the man of whom he spoke.

Bak’s eyes leaped forward to the young priest, who had left the palm grove and was striding up the processional way toward Ipet-resyt. He was not hurrying, but he was walking with purpose. “I suppose he could’ve slain him, but what reason would he have? He does nothing day after day but care for, hand out, and take back the special items used in the rituals.”

“What reason would anyone have?” Kasaya asked.

“Woserhet was an auditor,” Hori said scornfully. “Audi tors make enemies.”

Kasaya matched derision with derision. “Within the sa cred precinct?”

“Priests are no different than anyone else. They can be tempted by wealth. They can be seduced by a beautiful woman. They can get frustrated and angry. Since he was an auditor…” The young scribe stubbed his toe on a rock and stumbled. “Well, I’d sure be unhappy if I found someone prying in my records.”

Ahead, Meryamon veered around a large family group and Bak lost sight of him.

“Was he slain in anger, sir?” the young Medjay asked.

Bak raised his baton of office, responding to the salute of four soldiers walking in the opposite direction. “An inspec tion of the partly burned documents might give us an idea of what he was doing. If we can find a reason among them for slaying a man, we may conclude that anger was not a factor.”

Hori did not have to be told who would go through the documents. “When am I to start, sir?”

“At break of day tomorrow. I’ve sealed the room, but have told the guards to allow you inside.” Bak veered to the edge of the crushed limestone path. The scribe and Medjay fell in line behind him and they walked around the family group.

When they were once again close enough to talk, he said, “I wish you to sort the scrolls that were scattered around the body into three groups: those too burned to read, those partly burned, and those you find undamaged.”

Meryamon, again in view, had increased his speed and was catching up with another loose group of people. Bak, his curiosity aroused, also walked faster.

“How can I help, sir?” Kasaya asked.

Noting the expectant look on the Medjay’s face, the hope that he could be of use, Bak gave him the only assignment he could think of. “You can stand guard, making sure no one enters the room and disturbs Hori.”

Kasaya nodded, satisfied with a task he must have known was unnecessary. “Yes, sir.”

“While you sort the documents…” Bak saw Meryamon closing on the people ahead. “… I’ll be searching out Woserhet’s scribe. With luck and the help of the lord Amon, he’ll know what the auditor was looking for, and he may even point us toward the slayer.”

Meryamon moved up close to a man with fuzzy red hair.

Briefly the two walked side by side. Whether they spoke to each other, Bak was unable to tell. He could not say exactly why, but he thought they did-and he could have sworn the priest passed something to the other man before quickly moving on.

“What are we to do today?” Hori asked.

“We can’t do anything,” Bak said. “The sacred precinct is deserted except for a few guards, and all who aren’t making merry must by this time be watching the ritual outside Ipet resyt. You’re free to enjoy the festival.”

The two young men exchanged a glance that told Bak they were not disappointed at their release from duty.

“And you, sir?” Kasaya asked.

“I hope to find Amonked at Ipet-resyt. He’ll want a re port.”

Meryamon merged into the crowd ahead. The red-haired man turned off the processional way into a side lane. He stopped in the shadow of a white-plastered mudbrick build ing and looked at something in his hand. Dropping it to the ground, he stepped on it, hurried on down the lane, and van ished among the small, decrepit houses that lined this por tion of the processional way.

Bak, more curious than ever, plunged off the thoroughfare and into the lane where the redhead had been. On the ground he found the crushed pieces of a gray pottery shard. Kneel ing, he picked up a few of the larger fragments and studied them. He saw signs of writing, a message destroyed.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Hori asked, eyeing the grayish bits with curiosity.

Bak shrugged. “I thought I saw the priest Meryamon pass something to another man. I wondered what it was, that’s all.”

“A note?”

Bak slipped out of the lane and looked up the processional way. Meryamon had vanished in the crowd ahead. “I’ll ask him when next I see him.”

Bak, Hori, and Kasaya passed the final barque sanctuary and stopped at the southern end of the processional way to look upon the crowd ahead. After dwelling three years on the southern frontier, where man could eke out a living only on a narrow strip of land along the river, keeping the population low, the vast number of individuals gathered in this one place was staggering.

“I grew to manhood across the river and often came to the festival,” Hori said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.

Each year more people come from afar and each year the procession is grander.”