Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“He’s dead?” Amonked had to shout to be heard.

Bak did not have to ask to whom he referred. “I dove down after him without delay, but even if I’d caught him be fore he entered the water, it would’ve made no difference.

The rock struck him hard enough to’ve slain an ox.”

The strident blare of a trumpet, close enough to destroy a man’s hearing, rent the air. The first two towboats swung into the far end of the canal, each carrying on its bow an en shrined gilded image of the sovereign of Kemet in a sym bolic pose of victory. The second pair carried similar shrines and images, as did the following vessels.

Behind the towboats, guided into the canal by men stand ing on the riverbank, came the long, slender royal barge on which Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose had journeyed from Ipet-resyt. Enthroned side by side within a shrine, they were swathed in long, tight, white ju bilee robes. While the barge made its slow, deliberate pas sage down the canal, voices rose in adoration, muting the beat of the drums marking time for the towboat oarsmen and muffling the sounds of sistra and clappers.

“What in the name of the lord Amon did he intend?”

Amonked shouted.

Bak could but shrug. The question was not new. Everyone who had watched Pahure’s last desperate attempt to leave the water had asked it of him. “I can only believe he thought the men on shore would be easier to evade than me. Or per haps he hoped to die there, a quick and painless death at the hands of a soldier.”

“A coward’s way,” Amonked said, scowling.

“Would you want to face impalement or burning?”

The golden barge of the lord Amon slipped into view.

Voices swelled in a fresh round of acclaim as the long, sleek vessel was maneuvered around the tight turn into the canal.

Though it was linked by rope to the royal barge, a company of soldiers stationed along the paths to either side towed the vessel in the wake of its predecessor. The task was not diffi cult, an honor bestowed by the royal pair.

In the lull of voices while all who watched practically held their breaths, waiting for their sovereigns’ barge to touch land, Amonked said, “We know what prompted him to take Woserhet’s life and Meryamon’s, but did he ever say why he believed, after more than three years had passed, that

Maruwa would reveal mistress Meret as a traitor?”

“He had no chance. I fear that’s one question which will never be answered.”

“His death was far quicker and easier than it should’ve been.” Amonked, his expression severe, wiped the sweat from his face and neck with a square of linen. “I trust the other men involved in his foul scheme will suffer appropri ate punishment.”

“The chief priest will no doubt press the vizier to see jus tice done.”

The royal barge bumped against the landing stage. Crew men scrambled out to span the narrow gap with a gangplank, while others held the vessel steady. The dual sovereigns stepped out of the shrine and, with the dignity born of their office, removed the robes that had enshrouded them, passed them and the associated regalia to a priest and, with the help of aides, donned more appropriate attire for the final pro cession into Ipet-isut.

The trumpet blared again and Maatkare Hatshepsut, dressed much as she had been eleven days earlier, strode across the gangplank, head held high, the very image of grandeur. The moment her feet touched earth, the crowd roared. At the same time, Menkheperre Thutmose bounded onto the shore in two long strides. How much of the acclaim was directed toward him was impossible to tell. Bak wanted to believe the young king shared in equal measure with

Maatkare Hatshepsut the adoration of his people.

The instant the barge was empty of its illustrious passen gers, the crewmen jumped back on board and withdrew the gangplank so the craft could be towed out of the way, mak ing room for the barge of the lord Amon. The priests on the landing stage stepped forward to purify with water the earth upon which their sovereigns trod and to cleanse the air around them with a scent so pungent it made Bak sneeze.

The servants moved up to wave the ostrich feather fans over the heads of the royal pair.

Amonked shouted something Bak could not hear, took his arm, and ushered him off the crowded platform. The broad, open area, delineated by low walls, between the platform and Ipet-isut, hummed with the voices of priests, ranking bureaucrats, and nobility. All along both walls stood tables heaped high with offerings of food and drink and flowers, the finest produced in the land of Kemet. Sacrificial cattle, four prime black steers, stood near the northern tower of the pylon gate through which royalty and god would enter the sacred precinct. Facing the cattle across the processional route, priests held squawking geese and ducks by their wings, these also destined for sacrifice.

Slipping behind the row of royal guards who lined both sides of the processional way joining the landing stage to the sacred precinct, Bak and Amonked wove a path through the spectators to a spot not far from the live food offerings.

No sooner had they positioned themselves behind a pair of guards than Amonked went on with their conversation as if it had not been interrupted. “Pahure’s thoughts were bent and twisted, his goals far out of reach.”

“We all know Menkheperre Thutmose is raising men above their stations when they’ve proven themselves to be competent,” Bak said. “I suspect the steward was extremely capable.”

“In the regiments Thutmose commands, he can do what he wishes, but my cousin is more traditional in her selection of men who rise to lofty positions.”

Bak noted Amonked’s use of the familiar name Thutmose rather than the full, more formal Menkheperre Thutmose.

He knew the Storekeeper of Amon held a special place of trust in Maatkare Hatshepsut’s heart. What place, he won dered, did he hold in the heart of her youthful co-ruler? The thought was torn asunder by the approach of the standard bearers.

Bak thanked the lord Amon for the swift progress of the procession. The faintest of breezes sporadically stirred the pennants rising above the pylons, but could not compete with the hot breath of the lord Re reaching down upon the earth, turning the crowded area in front of the sacred precinct into a kiln.

The standard-bearers came close, each holding high the golden symbol of a god or location significant to Maatkare

Hatshepsut and her domain. Bak was surprised to see Neter mose walking among them, representing Tjeny, the city from which had originated, according to tradition, the first sovereign of Kemet. The aide’s eyes flitted toward Bak and

Amonked, he tilted his head slightly in recognition, and strode on.

“I’m amazed Pentu remembered to send someone with the standard,” Bak said. “The last I saw of him, he was so upset with Taharet’s betrayal, her decision to help her sister at his expense, that he was thinking of nothing but the loss of his happy marriage.”

“He didn’t remember.” Amonked tucked the square of linen under his belt. “I told Netermose to join the pro cession. I didn’t wish to make public the dissension within the governor’s household.” He looked about to speak further, hesitated, then said, “I sorrow for mistress Meret, as you must.”

“I do. I can’t help but think her a good woman, one who closed her eyes to the lady Maat and chose a wrong path to aid the dream of another.”

“The vizier will judge her guilty.”

“Yes.”

Neither man wanted to voice the punishment she would no doubt face: death by her own hand. Poison.

“What of mistress Taharet?” Bak asked.

“If Pentu speaks for her, she’ll probably be allowed her freedom, but I doubt she’ll ever again be welcome in Waset.