Lauren Haney: Place of Darkness

“Did Menna rob the tomb the night I was supposed to be guarding it,” Kasaya asked, “or could he have taken the bracelets at some other time?”

“We’ll never know,” Bak said with a shrug. “He was alone in the sepulcher for a short time after Kaemwaset climbed out and before the masons went down to wall off the burial chamber. He could’ve taken them then, with no one the wiser.”

“What of Montu?” Hori asked, waving one of the small fish before Tracker’s indifferent nose.

“Humay threw the broken jar into the trash dump at Djeser Djeseru, thinking it would vanish forever. I assume Montu found it among the shards Ani gathered for him. He probably recognized the sketch of the bee-the fishermen’s farm was not far from his wife’s estate-and thought to catch them pretending to be the malign spirit. Instead, Menna caught him lurking about and slew him.”

Ptahhotep flung a bitter look toward the burned structure at the end of the paddock. “Was Menna the man who fired the shed with you and the horses inside?”

“I can’t speak with certainty about the fire, but I know for a fact that he was the one who set off the rock slide above the northern retaining wall.” Bak untied the knot holding a square of linen to his belt, spread the corners wide, and held it out so all could see. Glittering in the failing light were dozens of beads and amulets, their colors hard to guess with no sun to give them life. With a finger, he separated two from the rest, both tiny malachite images of the Lates fish.

“His broad collar broke while we fought. I picked these up after his death.”

“Was he on board the fishing boat when his cousins ran down my skiff? When they tried to slay us?”

“He wasn’t. It was Pairi’s idea, but he and Humay bun-gled it.” Bak recalled that night and scowled. “I suspect I was the target, not you. You were just unfortunate enough to be in the skiff with me.”

A long silence ensued, broken by Ptahhotep. “What of the valuables they unearthed through the years? Were any pieces found?”

Bak reknotted the cloth to preserve the contents and laid it aside. “Maiherperi sent men to search the fishermen’s farm while we awaited Menna at Djeser Djeseru. They found twenty-three pieces, a few from the tomb of Neferu, the rest from tombs of the nobility. All waiting to be smuggled out of Kemet.”

“Beautiful objects,” Amonked said. “Superb examples of craftsmanship. A credit to our ancestors’ good taste.”

“You’ll never guess where they hid them.” Hori, smiling broadly, his voice bubbling with excitement, was far too eager to answer his own question to await a guess. “In an old, empty beehive set among the occupied hives.”

A large moth flew into the flame of a torch planted in the earth far enough away from the portico to keep flying insects 284

Lauren Haney

at a distance. A quick flare and a soft sputter signaled the creature’s demise. Bak heard the gentle plop of hooves in the paddock, while a jackal’s howl farther afield roused a dozen or more dogs scattered among the surrounding farms, setting them to barking. Tracker remained mute, though his ears took note of who was who among the canine neighbors.

A small fire burned beneath the sycamore, and the soft voices of the men awaiting Amonked carried through the night. The smell of the food they had shared, fish and scorched onions, hung in the air, reminding Bak of the burned shed and the need to rebuild it. The workmen at Djeser Djeseru had volunteered their labor, offering with an eagerness that was touching to make mudbricks and build a proper structure for the man who had risked his life to save theirs.

Hori dropped the small bones of a braised pigeon into a bowl and licked the juice from his fingers. “Now that we’ve found the princess’s tombs. .”

“They were Royal Ornaments,” Bak reminded him with a smile.

The scribe ignored the correction. “Will they be opened so the priests can inspect their contents? Will we be able to see what they contain?”

“Maybe they’re empty,” Kasaya said. “Maybe they were long ago broken into and their contents rifled.”

Amonked reached for another bird. “They’re safe, thoroughly covered by the rock slide, and I see no reason to dig them out. I’ll recommend to my cousin that they remain as they are.”

Bak and his father stood beneath the portico, watching Amonked and his porters walk along the moonlit path beyond the paddock. Hori and Kasaya, walking with them, would leave them at the river’s edge to walk on to their parents’ homes. As they faded into the darkness, Bak pulled the torch from the ground, laid it down, and flung dirt on the dwindling flame. He was very tired and longed for his sleeping pallet. And he was well satisfied. He had accomplished his task and was free to play. His horses needed exercise. His father’s skiff beckoned. Even helping the men rebuild the shed would be enjoyable.

Ptahhotep, gathering together dishes and drinking bowls, said, “No word was spoken of Senenmut, my son. Did he say anything to you? Did he congratulate you?”

Bak laughed. “He left Djeser Djeseru the moment Menna’s body fell. By the time I arrived at the temple, he was no doubt at the river, boarding a boat to cross to Waset.”

“The swine!”

“Father!” Bak took his parent by the shoulders, smiled. “I had reward enough when I saw the faces of the workmen, when they spoke of the relief they felt, their release from fear.”

“Surely Amonked will tell our sovereign that you’ve earned the gold of honor.”

Bak did not reply. Deep in his heart he knew he would never receive a golden fly as long as Maatkare Hatshepsut sat on the throne.