Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“How would I come to know a priest?”

“Meryamon grew to manhood in Abedju, as did you. As did his friend Nehi. The town is not large. You had to know each other, and your sister’s presence there along with the presence of Meryamon’s parents gave you ample opportu nity to meet and plan. I sent a courier downriver last night and will know for a fact within a few days.”

Pahure plastered a smile on his face. “You can’t prove a thing.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Amonked said. “He has merely to take you before the vizier and state his case. My word will attest to the truth of the charge.”

Baffled, the governor asked, “Pahure? Slay three men?

Steal from the lord Amon? I can’t believe it of him. Not for a woman with no wealth of her own.”

“Mistress Meret was but a stepping-stone. Wed to her, he would be looked upon as a brother to the governor of Tjeny.

He could move to Waset, to this dwelling, or to another fine dwelling in Mennufer and gradually begin to use the riches he amassed from the objects stolen from the sacred precinct.

As a man of wealth and position, he could easily become acquainted with those who walk in the shadow of Maatkare

Hatshepsut, and from there he could move into a position of influence and power. Or so he believed, at any rate.”

Pentu, sitting stiff and straight in his armchair, eyed

Pahure warily. “How certain are you of this charge, Lieu tenant?”

Bak nodded to Psuro, who ordered two Medjays to close in on the steward. Whistling a signal, he summoned Hori and Kasaya from the next room.

As the pair hurried into the hall, a smiling Hori held out a long-necked red jar like those used in the land of Amurru in which Ugarit was the primary port. “We found this jar buried in the garden, sir, behind the shrine of the lord In heret. It contains scrolls describing some property held in

Ugarit and names Pahure as the owner.”

Pahure rammed an elbow into the pit of one Medjay’s stomach and struck the other high between the legs with a knee. Their spears clattered to the floor and they both bent double, clutching their injured parts. Before anyone else could think to act, he raced toward the door. Hori stepped into his path. The steward plowed into the scribe with a shoulder, knocking him against Kasaya. The jar slipped from Hori’s hands and crashed onto the floor, sending shards and scrolls in all directions. Pahure ducked around the two young men. Leaping across the threshold, he vanished from sight.

Dashing after the steward, Bak yelled at Psuro and the two unhurt Medjays to give chase. He reached the door ahead of them and spotted his quarry on the opposite side of an inner courtyard, vanishing through the portal at the top of the stairs. Though Pahure had allowed his waist to thicken as a measure of his success, he clearly had lost none of the speed and strength honed by his life as a sailor on the Great

Green Sea.

Bak dashed across the court, passing a startled servant carrying an armload of fresh, yeasty-smelling bread, and leaped through the door. As he plunged downward, he glimpsed Pahure racing ahead down the zigzagging stair way. The way was poorly lit, the landings cluttered with large, elongated water jars and less porous, rounder storage jars. Behind, he heard the rapid footsteps of Psuro and the

Medjays. He heard a thud, a curse, the sound of a rolling jar.

A triumphant shout told him one of the men had caught the container before it could tumble down the stairs.

Pahure leaped off the bottom step, shoved an elderly fe male servant out of his way, and raced through the door that opened into an anteroom. Certain he meant to leave the house, Bak put on an added burst of speed. The steward was too far ahead to catch. He banged open the front door, raced through, and leaped into the street, which teemed with men, women, and children streaming toward Ipet-resyt.

Bak reached the exit and glanced back. He saw Psuro and the Medjays racing out of the stairwell, with Sitepehu run ning after them, an unexpected sight, decked out as he was in his priestly finery. Hori followed close behind with

Netermose.

Praying Pahure would not think to grab a hostage, Bak sped after him into the street, which was filled with the deep shadows of early morning. Above the two- and three-story houses that hugged both sides, ribbons of red and yellow spread out from the lord Khepre, not long risen above the eastern horizon. The smells of fresh bread, animals and their waste, humanity, and the river hung in the warm, sticky air.

Pahure dashed west toward Ipet-resyt. He shoved aside a man carrying a small boy on his shoulders, cursed three young women walking side by side, scattering them, and shouldered an elderly couple out of his way. Bubbling voices broke off at his rude passage, children half dancing at their parents’ heels stopped to stare. An older boy peeked out of an open doorway. Grinning mischievously, he stuck out a foot, trying to trip the steward. Instead of the good-natured laugh he probably expected, he received a cuff across the side of his head that sent him reeling.

Bak did not break his stride. Hori, he felt confident, would summon help for anyone in need.

Dashing out of the street and onto the swath of trampled grass between the houses and the open court in front of Ipet resyt, Pahure slowed and glanced around as if taking mea sure of his surroundings. He veered to the right and sped toward the northern end of the wall enclosing the court. Bak raced after him into the sunlight and he, too, took note of the world around him.

Dense crowds filled the court, awaiting the greatest of the gods and his earthly daughter and son. Those who had come too late for a prime spot from which to view the procession that would, within a short time, depart from the southern mansion were milling around the booths, seeking a better vantage point. Bak could not see the processional route be yond the court to the west, but he assumed the throng was equally large all the way to the river. There another assem blage would be massed at the water’s edge, along which were moored the royal barge, the golden barge of the lord

Amon, and the boats that would tow the two vessels and carry royalty and priests downriver to Ipet-isut. A flotilla of other vessels would be marking time on the river, waiting to accompany the procession downstream.

Pahure rounded the corner of the court, with Bak about thirty paces back. Ignoring the booths that had been erected north of the court, the men and women and children who wandered around them, more intent on a good time than adoring their god and sovereigns, the two men, one after the other, pounded across the northbound processional way along which the lord Amon had been carried from Ipet-isut eleven days earlier.

Trumpets blared, announcing to the world that the pro cession was leaving Ipet-resyt. A murmur of excitement surged through the crowded court as a dozen standard 276

Lauren Haney bearers came through the pylon gateway in the massive wall in front of the god’s mansion. Bak could see nothing over the spectators’ heads except the sun-struck golden figures mounted on top of the standards, the long red pennants swaying gently atop the flagpoles clamped to the pylon, and a cloud of incense rising in front of the gate.

Pahure swung south around the corner of the court and raced toward the crowd standing along the westbound pro cessional way along which the deity would be carried to the river. Surely, Bak thought, he would not be so stupid as to run into the crowd, attracting the attention of the many sol diers lining the raised thoroughfare. No sooner had the thought come and gone than Pahure turned westward to run up a broad strip of grass between the spectators and several blocks of interconnected houses, enclosed within an unbro ken wall of white.