Lauren Haney: Place of Darkness

“Bak!” Ptahhotep called.

The physician came around the modest white house that stood twenty or so paces from the paddock. He had gone off on an early morning call and was returning by way of a raised path between fields. Close on his heels walked a slight young man a year or two younger than Hori wearing a calf-length kilt down which ink had been spilled. An apprentice scribe, Bak guessed.

The pair crossed an open plot of scrubby grass in front of the portico that ran the length of the house, which was shaded by date palms and a tall sycamore. Bak had been given the house and the small section of land as a reward for solving a crime when first he had gone to Buhen. He looked upon the property with mixed emotions. It was a reward he had earned but not the gold of valor he longed for.

Praying the scribe had brought a message from Amonked, doubting a summons would come so early, Bak crossed to the wall to greet them.

“This is Huy,” Ptahhotep said. “He’s come to take you to Amonked.” Anyone who saw the physician and Bak together could not help but know they were father and son. The older man was slimmer, to be sure, his hair faded to white, his forehead and the corners of his eyes and mouth wrinkled.

But in spite of the toll the passing years had taken, the resemblance was there for the world to see.

Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

Deep down inside, he had feared Amonked might ignore his message, thinking he had come to the capital in search of pa-tronage. He vaulted over the wall, paused, exchanged a quick glance with Hori, a promise of sorts. Like the youth, he had no desire to spend a quiet month in Waset.

Amonked clasped Bak by the shoulders like an old and valued friend. “Welcome to Waset, Lieutenant. I felt sure you’d stop to see your father on the way to Mennufer-and I dared hope you’d come to see me.”

“You knew of our new posting?” Released by the older man, Bak stepped back, laughing. “Of course you did. You may’ve left behind the land of Wawat, never to return again, but if I’ve learned nothing else about you, I’ve learned that your interest, once attracted, never wanes.”

Smiling his pleasure at what he rightly took as a compliment, Amonked laid an arm across Bak’s shoulders and ushered him into the shade of a portico built across the front of a storehouse of the lord Amon. “It’s true. I never fail to read the abbreviated daybooks Thuty sends north to Waset.”

Huy followed at a respectful distance, awaiting fresh orders. The building, which consisted of ten long, vaulted magazines, stood near a quay that allowed cargo to be off-loaded from ships moored reasonably close to the many warehouses of the god. Eight of the structure’s doors were closed and sealed, while two stood open, releasing the odors of grain and cooking oils. Five scribes sat on reed mats at the far end of the portico, scribbling on papyrus scrolls.

Basking in the warmth of Amonked’s welcome, Bak dropped onto a low stool and studied the man he had come to see. He was rather plump and of medium height, and sat on a chair befitting his status as Storekeeper of Amon, with plenty of colorful pillows for comfort. He wore the simple calf-length kilt of a scribe and a minimum of colorful beaded jewelry. Unashamed of his thinning hair, he wore no wig. He had not changed, Bak was glad to see, since washing away the sand and sweat of Wawat to return to this easier, more comfortable life.

“First things first,” Amonked said, and ordered Huy to bring close a low table on which sat two stemmed bowls, a jar of wine, and bowls of fruit. “Tell me of Buhen and all that’s happened since last I saw it.”

Sipping a rich, flower-scented wine, Bak first thanked him on behalf of Commandant Thuty and himself for the promises he had kept. He went on to speak of the many individuals Amonked had come to know during his long journey south. The Storekeeper of Amon, in turn, invited Bak to his home to renew acquaintance with those who had accompanied him to Wawat. A gentle breeze and the soft cooing of doves blessed their reunion.

When finally they had caught up with the news, Amonked set his drinking bowl on the table and his face grew serious.

“You wish to report an offense against the lady Maat, so said your message. A vile deed that must be resolved here in Waset.”

Bak pulled loose from his belt the square of linen in which he had carried the ancient jewelry. Untying the knot, he spread wide the fabric and held out the open package. He had a brief moment of regret that the bracelets and rings no longer lay in the honey. The presentation would have been more dramatic, a jest he felt sure Amonked would have appreciated.

“I found these while inspecting southbound trade goods passing through Buhen,” he said.

Amonked took the package and lifted out a golden bracelet encrusted with turquoise and carnelian. After reading the royal oval and the symbols inside, he studied the other five objects.

Grave of face, he said, “The jewelry of a royal consort or princess, without doubt. A woman close to Nebhepetre Montuhotep, the first of a long line of kings to make Waset their seat of power.” He laid the square of cloth and its precious contents on the table by his side. “Tell me how you found the jewelry and who had it.”

Bak explained in detail and spoke of the subsequent inter-rogation. He summed up the result in one brief sentence:

“I’m convinced Nenwaf knows no more than he told us.”

Eyeing the jewelry, Amonked’s expression grew dark and unhappy. “This isn’t the first time such items have been found on board a ship bound for some distant land. Of the eighteen objects the inspectors at the harbor have retrieved, some, like these, were taken from a royal tomb, while others came from the burial places of individuals whose names we don’t know. They’re all quite beautiful and valuable, objects once worn by the long-dead nobility.”

Bak whistled. The jewelry discovered would be a small fraction of the total amount stolen. The situation was more serious than he had imagined. “Were all the pieces taken from the same burial ground?”

“That we don’t know. The four smugglers apprehended knew no more than your Nenwaf did.” Amonked picked up his drinking bowl. “Even if the jewelry taken from a non-royal tomb contained the owner’s name, we probably wouldn’t know its location. Some objects are of a style common to the reign of Nebhepetre Montuhotep and his immediate successors; the rest are of a less refined workmanship, somewhat later in origin, possibly made at a provincial capital.”

Bak understood the problem. Records so old were hard to find-if they existed at all. A portion of the intervening time had been plagued by famine and war, turning the land of Kemet upside down and the archives into places of chaos.

“Nebhepetre Montuhotep’s memorial temple and tomb are in western Waset. Would not the women close within his heart be buried nearby?”

“Other men’s thoughts have followed the same path, Lieutenant.” Amonked plucked a cluster of grapes from a bowl on the table and plopped one into his mouth. “Lieutenant Menna, the officer who stands at the head of the men who guard the cemeteries of western Waset, has been given the task of laying hands on the thief. Thus far he’s had no luck. Oh, he finds an open tomb now and then, small and poor, certainly not one in which jewelry of this quality would be found.” He spat a seed into his hand. “If anyone can resolve the problem, he can. He’s held his position for more than three years, and he knows the area well.” Beckoning Huy, he added, “I’ll summon him. You must get to know him.”

While he issued orders to the apprentice, the beat of drums and the rhythmic song of oarsmen announced the departure of a cargo ship. As it pulled away from the quay, another similar vessel approached the dock to moor in its place. The quay seldom stood empty at this time of year, Bak knew. The harvest was over and the time had come to share a portion of the year’s bounty with the royal house and the lord Amon. The men who toiled day after day, carrying the offering from the laden ships to the god’s storehouses, sat on the ground beneath a cluster of palms, awaiting the next cargo. One man was whistling, a few played a game of chance, the rest were chatting and laughing, men who saw each other daily but never ran out of words.