Lauren Haney - Cruel Deceit

“Where can we find him?”

“Come with me. We must ask the scribe who deals with these people.”

“I should’ve guessed he dwelt here.” Bak stood outside the gate through which he and Amonked had, ten days be fore, entered the sacred precinct to view Woserhet’s body.

He eyed the blank white walls of the interconnected houses that lay in the shadow of the massive wall surrounding the lord Amon’s domain. He remembered well chasing the red haired man through that confusing warren of narrow lanes.

“Where do we go from here?”

Psuro could neither read nor write, but his memory was faultless. “According to the scribe, we enter the leftmost lane, turn right at the second intersection, left at the next lane, pass beneath a wooden lintel, and turn right again at the next intersecting lane. His dwelling will be behind the fourth doorway to the right.”

Signaling the sergeant to lead the way, Bak followed with

Karoya. A dozen of his Medjays and an equal number of harbor patrolmen hurried after them. Upon learning where

Nehi dwelt, he had suggested they summon extra men.

He stopped at the lintel, while Psuro went on ahead, and gathered the men around. “You all know what you’re to do, but I must warn you.” He looked from one to another, his ex pression stern. “He knows these lanes far better than we do.

If he runs, don’t follow him in a line like cattle being led to slaughter. Spread out into the surrounding lanes. We must not let him get away.”

They melted into the shadows of a nearby lane, where they waited in silence until Psuro returned.

“He’s home,” the sergeant reported. “Sleeping late after a night of revelry, so says an old woman in the adjoining house.”

Bak thanked the lord Amon that they would not have to lie in wait. “Let’s go.”

The sergeant and a dozen men hurried off to surround the block. Karoya took six others to close off the nearby lanes.

Bak and the remainder waited. When they heard two short, sharp whistles, Psuro’s signal and Karoya’s, they strode to ward the fourth doorway to the right. They were a dozen steps away when the red-haired man stepped into the lane, yawning, scratching his head. He saw Bak, his mouth dropped open, he spun around and leaped inside. Bak plunged into the dark dwelling, glimpsed his quarry at the top of the stairs leading to the roof. Yelling to his men to spread out and watch the doors of the other houses, he raced upward.

Nehi sped across the flat, white rooftop, leaping over bas kets and bowls; bounding over fish laid out to dry; veering around small pavilions occupied by women spinning and weaving, grinding grain, and performing innumerable other household tasks while they tended their small children. He reached the opposite side of the block, looked down into the lane, saw the men below and cried out an oath. He ran to the right and looked into a side lane. Seeing more men waiting to snare him, he slumped down onto the roof, head bowed, gasping for breath. Bak called for manacles and within mo ments Nehi was their prisoner.

As soon as Bak got his first good look at Nehi, he knew the redhead had played no major role in the robberies. He was, like Meryamon, less than twenty years of age. “You knew Meryamon.”

The young man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowed tears. The unexpected capture, the mere threat of burning, had completely unmanned him, turning him into the sobbing child he once had been. “We grew to manhood together. In Abedju. We were childhood playmates, the best of friends.”

He seemed so lacking in guile, so genuine, that Bak al most sympathized with him. Almost. “The two of you stole many valuable objects from the lord Amon.”

“We stole, yes.” Sniffing back tears, Nehi spoke out read ily, a young man eager to please men more senior in age and rank. “Each time I saw a ritual vessel or a jar of aromatic oil or anything else of value, if I could find a way to take it un seen, I did so. Meryamon took objects from the storehouses themselves, and he also altered the records so no one would know of his crime or mine.”

“Where did you hide the items you stole?”

“I took them to a storehouse near the waterfront. There the Hittite trader Zuwapi held the goods he meant to trans port to Ugarit and beyond. Meryamon stayed well clear, wanting no one to see him in the company of the foreigner.”

Bak signaled Kasaya, who allowed the prisoner to scuttle backward a couple of paces away from the furnace. He wanted sufficient heat to reach the prisoner to remind him of what he faced should he fail to talk. Between the furnace, the hot breath of the lord Re reaching into the sun-baked courtyard, and the never-ending sobbing, thirst might well become a more effective threat than Nehi’s fear of burning.

“Why did he wish to keep his distance?”

The redhead sniffled. “He thought it best, so he said.”

“How long have these thefts been going on?” Karoya asked.

“About three years. A long time.”

A buzz of voices rose beneath the lean-to, where Bak’s men and the harbor patrolmen knelt or sat in the shade. To steal a little from a god was a small sin, to steal so much for so long was horrendous.

Thanks to the diligence of Hori and Thanuny while searching the archives, Bak was not surprised, merely puz zled. If Karoya’s expression told true, he was equally per plexed. “Meryamon dwelt within the sacred precinct and had neither property nor riches. From the appearance of your dwelling, you also are without wealth. What did the two of you gain from these robberies?”

“Our portion was being held for us in Ugarit. There we meant to end our days in luxury.” Nehi burst into tears, his voice shook with anguish. “Now Meryamon has gone to the netherworld and I’m your prisoner, no doubt soon to die for taking what by rights belonged to the lord Amon. The end less fear of being caught, the constant expectation of wealth beyond measure. All for nothing.”

A fitting end for men who offend the lady Maat, Bak thought, but theft, in this case, was only one of several heinous acts. “Did you slay Maruwa? The Hittite who traded in horses?”

“No,” Nehi sobbed. “I didn’t even know the man.”

Bak signaled Kasaya, who stepped closer to the prisoner, looming over him, more threatening than words.

“I didn’t slay him. I swear I didn’t!”

“What of Woserhet and Meryamon?” Karoya demanded.

“Did you take their lives?”

“No!” Nehi stared at the fiery embers visible within the mouth of the furnace. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. “I was appalled to hear of Woserhet’s death. I knew so vile a crime would bring the wrath of the gods upon us. And when I learned Meryamon was slain…” He could barely talk, so wracked was he by sobs. “He was my friend, closer than a brother.”

Could a man pretend such sorrow, Bak wondered, such torment? “You dwell a short distance from the sacred precinct, with an unguarded gate close to hand. The store house where Woserhet died was less than a hundred paces beyond the gate, too close to bear thinking about. Meryamon was your friend, easy to lure to the shrine of the hearing ear, easier to sneak up behind and slit his throat.”

“You don’t understand!” Nehi cried. “Meryamon’s death planted a fear in my heart greater than any I’ve ever before felt. I knew then that I was doomed as surely as he had been.”

Bak glanced at Karoya, who nodded, indicating that he, too, shared Bak’s conviction that Nehi was telling the truth, or close to the truth. The redhead-and probably Meryamon as well-was as much a victim of his own greed as he was a criminal. Which made Zuwapi a liar, a man wishing to cast suspicion away from himself. Yet how could a foreigner like