Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

Imsiba eyed the crowded market, smiled. “Not to mention a desire to participate in the festivities.”

“Eleven days of revelry.” Nebwa chuckled. “There’ll be many an aching head and upset belly, I’ll wager.”

The sound of women’s laughter carried on the air, remind ing Bak of the ship moored in front of them and the many other fine traveling ships arriving in the capital. “As for men of wealth and import, our sovereigns will be holding audi ences from the second day through the tenth, giving them an opportunity to offer obeisance.” His voice grew wry. “Few will wish to be counted among the missing.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Lieutenant.” Thuty’s gruff de meanor was eased by a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll be down on my knees among them.”

“You, sir?”

“My new task as commandant of the garrison in Men nufer is an important posting. I’ll now be rubbing shoulders with men of note.”

Bak detected the hint of cynicism, as he was meant to, and smiled. “Will the rest of us remain in Waset throughout the festival? Or will we go on ahead to Mennufer?”

Thuty scowled in mock disapproval. “Do you think me a man who’d deprive you of the opportunity to take part in the merrymaking?”

“I wasn’t sure, sir,” Bak’s smile broadened, “but I had the foresight to obtain quarters for my Medjays for the length of the festival and beyond.”

The commandant tried to look stern, but a laugh burst forth to destroy the effect.

“Thuty? Is that you Thuty?”

A portly, bald man of middle years hastened down the gangplank spanning the gap between the shore and the trav eling ship moored in front of them. He wore the long kilt of a scribe and the broad collar, bracelets, and armlets of a man of wealth and consequence. Passing a young scribe, an aide

Bak assumed, and four porters with a carrying chair stand ing at the foot of the gangplank, he hurried up the waterfront to stand beside the prow of the cargo vessel.

The commandant, smiling with delight, dropped off the forecastle and strode to the railing. “Djehuty? By the grace of the lord Amon! I never thought to see you outside the walls of the royal house.”

The man chuckled. “I’m not wedded to our sovereign;

I’m a mere servant.”

“A servant of great import.” Thuty turned to his compan ions and introduced the man, adding, “Djehuty holds the wealth of Kemet within his hands. He’s the Chief Treasurer of our land.”

The impatient commands of an overseer sent laden porters filing down the gangplank of the traveling ship. The white-haired man hurried across the deck to watch, while the two women-his daughters, most likely-continued to flutter around the baggage. Their fine, stylish clothing and exquisite jewelry, the large number of servants, reinforced

Bak’s guess that this was a nobleman’s household.

The man followed the final porter to the shore and walked along the water’s edge to join Djehuty. He was as thin as the treasurer was plump, of medium height and lanky. A large bald spot showed through his otherwise thick white hair, and his eyes were a surprising blue, bits of sky transported to earth.

Djehuty introduced the commandant, explaining who he was, where he had come from, and where he was bound.

“Thuty, this is my friend Pentu, resident of Tjeny and gover nor of the province.” Tjeny was a very old city several days’ journey to the north. Although no longer as important as in the distant past, it was the capital of the province in which lay Abedju, the center of worship for the lord Osiris and the location of many ancient and revered tombs.

“Like you, I’ve known him for years,” Djehuty went on.

“Since first we came to the capital. Barely more than babes, we were, torn from our provincial homes to learn to read and write in the royal house. We clung together then in our lone liness. Now we’re men of substance, still close in spite of the different paths we’ve trod.”

Thuty in turn introduced his companions, then asked

Pentu, “You’ve come for the festival?”

“We have. This promises to be an exceptional year. As the flood was neither too high nor too low, the crops will be abundant. Maatkare Hatshepsut has much to celebrate.

She…” His eyes, drawn by the patter of leather sandals on wood, darted toward the traveling ship and the two young women walking down the gangplank.

As they approached along the waterfront, Bak could see that they were both in their mid-twenties, close to him in age. Their dark hair brushed their shoulders, and their skin was the exqui site shade and texture of the finest ivory. One was taller than the other and slimmer, but their facial features were very much alike, not beautiful by any means, but certainly handsome.

Whatever Pentu had intended to say was lost forever, as if the sight of the women had torn the thought from his heart.

He strode forward to meet them, took the hand of the taller of the two, and looked at her with an intense and utter devo tion. “Are you ready, my dear?”

“More than ready, my beloved.” She smiled prettily. “As you know, I find sailing to be quite tedious.”

She was his wife, not a daughter. Bak kept his face blank, hiding his surprise.

“I sent for a carrying chair. Will you ride or would you prefer to walk?”

Bak exchanged a quick glance with Nebwa and Imsiba.

They, like he, had assumed the Chief Treasurer had come in the chair.

“We’ll walk, at least part way.” She glanced at her sister, who smiled, then beamed at Djehuty. “It was so nice to see you again, sir. Too brief, of course, but we hope to correct that. Our house here in the city will be ready for guests within a day or two. Do bring your worthy spouse.”

“Your husband has already invited me and I’ve accepted,” the treasurer said, smiling his assurance.

Male and female servants laden with baskets and bundles hurried down the gangplank and gathered around the carry ing chair to await the women. Acknowledging their presence with a glance, Pentu’s wife said to her husband, “You won’t be long, will you, dearest?”

“I’ll catch you before you reach the house.”

Another quick smile and she turned away to walk up the street through the market. Unbidden, the servants and porters fell in behind. Shoppers and browsers stepped aside to let them pass and closed in after them, blocking them from view. Not until his wife vanished from sight did Pentu again become aware of the men with whom he had been talking.

Bak, Nebwa, and Imsiba, feeling they had no place among three such lofty individuals, slipped away as soon as they could reasonably do so. They walked through the mar ket, weaving a path through the throng and the mounds of produce, peering into stalls, thoroughly enjoying a carefree reunion.

The number of merchants had doubled over the past few days, Bak noticed, and the number of shoppers and browsers had quadrupled, swollen by those who had come from afar to attend the Opet festival. The opening procession would not take place for another week, but thanks to the uncertain ties of travel and the much larger than normal market, many celebrants came to the city well ahead of time.

The world around them hummed with voices and laugh ter. The high-pitched twittering of monkeys mimicked the squeaking of fittings, masts, and yards on the vessels moored along the water’s edge. The slow cadence of drum mers marking time for the oarsmen on passing ships echoed the louder beat of musicians playing for gifts they could trade for food. The fishy-musty smell of the river, the rancid odor of unwashed bodies, the smell of animals and their dung mingled with the aromas of spices and herbs, perfumes and aromatic oils, braised and roasted fowl and beef and lamb. Men and women from the land of Kemet, garbed in fine white linen or the roughest of fabrics worn by the poor, rubbed shoulders with individuals wearing the bright colored woolen robes of the north or the leather kilts of the south.