Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“He wasn’t supposed to know them,” Zuwapi admitted,

“but he may’ve followed me, thinking to cut me out, to elim inate me as the man between.”

“You said before that you thought Nehi slew those men,”

Karoya reminded him.

“Did I?” Zuwapi lifted a foot, making a sucking sound in the mud. It was too runny to form into pots, but thick enough for Bak’s purpose. “He could have. He gives an impression of being weak, but he’d not be the first nor will he be the last to avoid a fight or suitable punishment by denying an accu sation-or pointing a finger at someone else.”

The Hittite would blame Maatkare Hatshepsut herself,

Bak thought, if he believed he could make himself appear innocent. “Why would you wish Maruwa dead, Zuwapi?”

“You tell me.”

Bak nodded to Mose, who struck the Hittite in the stom ach, forcing a whoosh of air from his mouth, and shoved his head toward the mud.

“No!” Zuwapi struggled like a snared snake. “You’ll smother me!”

“Answer my question,” Bak said.

“How can I? I didn’t slay him!” Mose eased the pressure slightly, allowing the Hittite to stand half bent over. “Antef swore he was too interested in the horses to pay attention to the rest of the cargo, and I believed him. If he’d thought oth erwise, I’d have spotted the lie.”

“If the three deaths weren’t so much alike, I’d have looked to Meryamon as Woserhet’s slayer. But since he was among the slain…” Bak let the words tail off as if he had been thinking aloud. “Who do you believe took Meryamon’s life?”

“Nehi.”

“Not another man? One stronger than any of you-and smarter? One who planned the robberies?”

Zuwapi stared at his interrogator, thinking hard, and a slow understanding crept onto his face. He muttered an oath in his own tongue. “One who’s cut himself off from us, you mean. Severing all ties, thinking we’ll take the blame while he…”

“Reaps the profits?” Bak laughed, as if he enjoyed the irony. “Who is he, Zuwapi?”

“I wish I knew,” the Hittite growled through gritted teeth.

“Are you going to allow him to walk away free and clear, leaving you and the others as sacrificial goats?”

“Believe me, if I knew his name, I’d tell you.”

“Oh, yes, I believe him.” Bak accepted a beer jar from

Psuro and broke out the plug. “He was too angry to lie, and can you blame him? While he and the others are put to death or suffer the hardships of a desert mine, a man no one seems to know will gain great wealth.”

“I fear we’ve reached a dead end, sir.” Karoya, looking glum, sat down on a low stool beneath the lean-to, took an open jar from Mose, and sipped from it. “If none of them knows who their leader was after three or more years, how can we hope to lay hands on him?”

“You told us Meryamon stayed away from Zuwapi’s storehouse,” Bak said. “Why was that?”

Nehi stood a couple of paces from the pit with Mose. The threat was obviously unnecessary. From the way his shoul ders slumped, the distraught look on his face, anyone could see that he had no will to resist. “He wanted never to be seen with the trader.”

“In other words, you served as the intermediary between

Meryamon and Zuwapi. You knew of Antef, though you weren’t supposed to.”

Nehi hung his head, nodded.

“Zuwapi, in turn, served as the intermediary between you and Antef.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see,” Bak said, and indeed he did. The gang had been set up as a chain, with Meryamon dealing solely with Nehi who dealt with Zuwapi, who in turn dealt with Antef. “I thought at first that Zuwapi was the key man in this little group of robbers and smugglers. Instead…”

Nehi, staring at the ground beneath his feet, shook his head. “As far as I know, he served no purpose other than to take the objects I gave him and trade them to men far to the north.”

Bak caught the young man’s chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who planned the robberies,

Nehi? You? Have you led us to believe you’re a simple thief when in fact you’re the head of the gang?” The charge was ridiculous, but he had somehow to get Nehi to verify his suspicions.

“Me?” Nehi looked startled. “I’ve stolen objects from the lord Amon, I freely admit, but it wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose was it?”

“Meryamon’s,” he whispered.

Bak shoved the young man’s head higher, forcing him to stand on his toes. “It’s easy to blame a dead man.”

“I swear by all the gods! He told me what they planned to do and suggested I help. He spoke of immense wealth and a life of luxury in Ugarit or some other distant land.” Nehi be gan to sob. “Now look what I have. A promise of death for stealing from the god.”

“Zuwapi said the order to slay me came from you.”

Nehi gaped, stuttered, “I didn’t…” A sudden thought struck; shock registered on his face. “Oh, no!”

“What?” Bak demanded.

“I sometimes passed messages to him, sealed scrolls

Meryamon gave me.”

“Earlier you used the word ‘they.’ Did Meryamon plan the robberies and smuggling, or did someone else lead the gang from afar?”

“Meryamon was a priest, nothing more. What would he know of transporting items of value out of the land of Kemet, of trading such fine objects to men in faraway lands, men willing to pay dearly for them?”

Exchanging a satisfied glance with Karoya, Bak released

Nehi’s chin. “The one who planned the thefts, then, was an other man. He was your leader, was he not?”

“Yes, sir.” Nehi spoke so softly Bak could barely hear.

“Who is he?”

Nehi stared at the ground, mumbled, “Only Meryamon knew his name.”

“And now your friend is dead.”

Tears spilled from Nehi’s eyes, he nodded.

“If you don’t know who this leader of yours was, and

Zuwapi and Antef don’t either, how will you contact him?”

Nehi tried to meet Bak’s eyes but failed. “I guess he’ll contact us.”

His lack of conviction made a lie of the words. He knew as well as Bak that the man had no intention of making him self known. He had slain Meryamon to break the chain, thereby assuring his safety forevermore.

Bak and Psuro walked through the gathering darkness along lanes crowded with men, women, and children, all making merry on this final night of the festival. Their Med jays had gone off with Karoya and the harbor patrolmen to escort the prisoners to the Great Prison of Waset, where they would be held until they stood before the vizier. After judg ment they would return to the prison to await punishment.

“Where are you to meet our men, Psuro?” Bak asked.

“In front of Ipet-resyt. They won’t be long, I’m certain.”

The sergeant stopped in the intersection where they must part company. A soldier stood there, holding high a flaming torch, keeping a wary eye on the people passing by, all talk ing and laughing, happy and excited. “Are you sure you can’t come with me, sir? You’ve earned a night of revelry.”

“I must report to Amonked, tell him of today’s events.”

Bak nudged Psuro, and they stepped out of the way of a half dozen sailors, sauntering arm in arm with no regard for any one in their path. “Early tomorrow, before the festivities be gin in earnest, I must go to Pentu’s dwelling and point a finger at the one who became involved in the politics of

Hatti. Amonked must be told what I mean to say.”

“Will you not join us after you leave him, sir?”

“I’d like to, but no.” Bak laid a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “I must go somewhere to be alone and think.

Something nags at me. Bits of information, statements made that slip away each time I feel them close.”