Lauren Haney: Cruel Deceit

“Yes, sir,” Meryamon said, looking uncomfortable, “but I must deal with Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, not the man who performs the ritual. I had no need to know who he was.”

“There goes a singularly uninquisitive man,” Amonked said later as they watched the priest hurry away.

Bak and Amonked strolled into the lovely limestone court in front of the imposing pylon gate that rose before the man sion of the lord Amon. The last of the procession had moved on, leaving the enclosure empty and quiet. The banners flut tered lazily atop the tall flagpoles clamped to the front of the pylon. Birds twittered in a clump of trees outside the court, and a yellow kitten chased a leaf blown over the wall by the breeze. A faint floral aroma rose from a slick of oil someone had spilled on the floor.

Built fifteen or so years earlier by Akheperenre Thutmose,

Maatkare Hatshepsut’s deceased spouse and Menkheperre

Thutmose’s father, the court contained two small limestone chapels. In each, a central stone base supported a statue of the lord Min, a fertility god identified closely with the lord

Amon. One structure was of an ancient date, built many gen erations ago by Kheperkare Senwosret, and the other more recent, erected just fifty years earlier by Djeserkare Amon hotep, grandfather to Maatkare Hatshepsut.

“Were the scrolls set on fire deliberately to burn the body?” Bak asked, thinking aloud, “or to get rid of informa tion the slayer wished to destroy? Or did the slayer-or

Woserhet himself-accidentally tip over an oil lamp and set them on fire?” He did not expect an answer and he got none.

“Woserhet was a senior scribe who reported directly to the chief priest.” Amonked’s face was grave. “I never met the man, merely saw him several times at a distance, but ac cording to Hapuseneb, the chief priest, he was extremely competent and adept at dealing with difficult situations.”

“Not adept enough, it seems.”

Ignoring the mild sarcasm, Amonked rested his backside against the balustrade wall that rose up the outer edge of a broad but shallow stairway giving access to the older of the two chapels. “I fear I wasn’t entirely forthright when I stopped to chat with you earlier today. I’d received a disturb ing message from Woserhet and thought to have you go with me when I met him. Unfortunately, with the procession up 36

Lauren Haney permost in my thoughts-and in everyone else’s, I as sumed-I saw no need for haste.”

Bak gave him a sharp look. “You’d never met him and yet he wrote to you?”

“Hapuseneb must shoulder many tasks through the length of the Beautiful Feast of Opet. As a result, he’ll be unavail able much of the time. He told me he’d given Woserhet a special assignment and asked me to be available should he need me. He said Woserhet would explain if necessary.”

Amonked glanced at the kitten, his expression troubled. “I agreed and thought no more of it. Much to my regret now that we’ve found him dead.”

Bak leaned against the low outer wall of the beautifully symmetrical building, indifferent to its rich reliefs of the an cient king and the lord Min. The colors, though no longer as vibrant as they once had been, were still lively enough to please the eye and lighten the heart of a man far less preoc cupied than he. “Can you tell me what the message said?”

Amonked released a long, unhappy sigh. “It was short and direct, and I fear it deepens the mystery surrounding his death. He said he’d learned something quite shocking and requested a private meeting before nightfall this day.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.” Amonked stood erect and signaled that they must leave. “I feel I’ve let Hapuseneb down, and I don’t like to think of myself as a man who fails to live up to his prom ises.” He paused, obviously reluctant to speak out. “I hesi tate to ask you, as you must be looking forward to the festival as much as everyone else. But I wish you to discover what the message refers to and to snare Woserhet’s slayer.

Hopefully before the end of the festival when the lord Amon returns to Ipet-isut and you must travel on to Mennufer.”

“Like the priest said, most were headed out of the sacred precinct. They were all in a hurry; didn’t want to miss the start of the procession.” The older guard, Tetynefer, glanced at his two companions, who nodded agreement. “Like us, they heard him yell and came running. None of us wasted any time talking. That fire had to be put out.”

“The well is close, I see.” Bak looked over the waist-high wall that protected the broad, round mouth of the well. In side, a spiraling stairway led down to a platform that encir cled the top of a narrower shaft up which water was drawn.

“Still, it takes a lot of water to put out a fire-and it must be delivered fast.”

“You see the problem,” Tetynefer said, eyeing the officer with respect. “Water alone would never have done the task.”

A tall, sturdy young guard whose accent marked him as a man of the north grinned. “Tetynefer sent me off in search of something to smother it. The lord Amon smiled on me, and right away I found a heavy woolen cloak.”

“I led the rest off to the well.” Tetynefer looked upon the young man with considerable pride. “By the time I got back with a jar of water, he’d shoved well out of the way all the scrolls that weren’t burning and had quenched the fire lick ing the ends of others.” He motioned toward the young man’s sandals, which were black and charred. An angry red burn ran up the side of his right ankle. “Look at his feet. No common sense at all but the courage of a lion.”

Trying without success to look modest, the young guard said, “As soon as they brought the water, it was all over.”

“We didn’t get a good look at the dead man until the fire was out.” The third guard, a shorter and stouter man, stood his shield against the wall and knelt beside it. “We saw the wound in his neck and sent the boy for the Overseer of Over seers. Instead he brought you and the Storekeeper of Amon.”

Bak turned away from the well and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by a half-dozen date palms. Fronds rustled above his head, stirred by the light breeze, and the sweet song of a hoopoe filled the air.

“Since most men would give their best kilts to see the pro cession, I assume you were ordered to stay,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Tetynefer hunkered down in the scruffy grass in front of him. “I’ve seen enough processions to satisfy me through eternity, and these two,” he nodded toward his com panions, “grew to manhood in Waset. Our sergeant thought to give men new to the capital the opportunity to watch.”

The sturdy guard looked up from the dirt in which he was drawing stick men. “He’s vowed to assign us to the court yard in front of Ipet-isut when the lord Amon returns from his southern mansion. We’ll get to see him close up, closer than we ever would standing alongside the processional way. And the other gods and our sovereigns, too.”

A fair exchange of duties, Bak agreed. “Amonked and I saw no sentry when we came through the gate, and unless

I’m mistaken, no one’s on duty there now. Aren’t the gates guarded?”

“Yes, sir. At least in a manner of speaking.” The tall guard leaned back against the wall of the well, raised his spear, and shoved it hard into the ground, making it stand erect. “Our task is to keep an eye on the gate and at the same time patrol the streets and lanes within this sector of the sacred precinct, making sure no one roams around who has no right to be here.”

His shorter companion nodded. “With so many people come to Waset from afar, you never know who might allow his curiosity to lead him inside to explore.”