“We’ve toiled together here at Djeser Djeseru for over five years. I’d know him anywhere.”
“Montu.” Amonked sighed. “I can’t say I liked the man, but to die like that. . An abomination.”
Bak eyed the half circle of men standing well back from the mouth of the tomb. From the size of the crowd, he guessed every man at Djeser Djeseru had abandoned his task to come and see for himself what had happened. Most men spoke together in hushed voices, speculating about the dead man and his manner of death. A few at the front of the circle were silent, trying to hear what the police officer and the Storekeeper of Amon were saying.
“Are you certain he didn’t fall and strike his head on a projecting stone?” Amonked asked, not for the first time.
“He was murdered, sir, struck down from behind.”
Amonked glanced at the onlookers. “I fear the men will see this as another in the series of accidents we’ve had. More serious, of course, but one among many. Are you sure. .?”
“There was nothing in the tomb against which he could’ve fallen, sir. The floor was smooth, and the walls, though rough, had no protrusions so large they’d damage his head in such a way.” Bak could see that Amonked was unconvinced or, more likely, did not want to believe. “I found almost no blood under him and I saw the tracks of a sledge. Seked assured me he’s sent no sledge into that tomb. I’m convinced Montu was slain somewhere else and his body hauled from that place to here. Everyone watching the progress of the retaining wall knew the tomb would soon be closed forever.
What better place to hide a murdered man?”
The guard who had been summoned to escort the dead man to the house of death came halfway out of the mouth of the tomb. A hush fell over the crowd. He spoke a few words to Pashed, waiting at the top, then turned around and said something to the men in the shaft behind him. Message relayed, he climbed to the surface. Two workmen Pashed had pressed into service stumbled out of the tomb. They carried between them the litter on which they had tied Montu’s body. At Bak’s suggestion, they had taken a length of linen with them to cover the dead man, but still the flies swarmed around. Both bearers looked a bit green, and Bak knew exactly how they felt.
Murmurs rose among the men looking on, prayers taking the place of speculation. Nodding at Bak and Amonked, the guard led the bearers toward the ring of onlookers and the ramp that would take them up to the terrace. Men scurried out of the way, breaking the circle apart. As the two workmen carried their grim burden past, the rest craned their heads, trying to see all there was to see, hoping to glean a bit more gossip.
Amonked took Bak’s upper arm as if he needed support and they walked together through the break in the circle. Not until they reached the top of the ramp and were standing among several partially finished statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut did the shorter, stouter man release the younger, more fit of the pair.
Amonked slumped down onto the twice-size, almost finished face of Maatkare Hatshepsut wrapped for eternity as the lord Osiris, which was lying on its back in the sand. “I thank the lord Amon, Lieutenant, that I had the good sense to enlist your help this morning. I can honestly report to my cousin and Senenmut that I have the matter well in hand.”
“I pray I can live up to your expectations, sir.”
“You will. I’m sure you will. I’ve every confidence in you.
You’ll not only lay hands on the slayer, but you’ll find the source of the many accidents that have plagued Djeser Djeseru and set to rest these tales of a malign spirit.”
The responsibility was a heavy one, and Bak offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that his shoulders were strong enough to bear it. Noting the carved features beneath Amonked’s buttocks, he added another, equally fervent prayer that the Storekeeper of Amon would keep his vow to stand between him and Maatkare Hatshepsut.
Chapter Four
“A murder!” Hori was not actually dancing up the causeway, but his step was almost as light and quick. “Much better than jewelry stolen from an old tomb. A far more serious matter.”
The plump scribe glanced at the large, muscular Medjay walking by his side. “The gods have indeed blessed us, Kasaya.”
The young Medjay’s eyes darted toward Bak. “It’s a good excuse to get away from my mother,” he said, apparently thinking the admission more prudent than Hori’s open enthusiasm.
“I doubt Montu’s wife is taking his death so lightly,” Bak said.
Hori flushed. “Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean. .” His voice tailed off, the lightness vanished from his stride.
Kasaya had the good sense to let the matter rest.
The trio strode up the causeway, keeping pace with their long shadows cast by the early morning sun. Each had brought along his tools of office: Bak carried his baton, Hori his scribal pallet and water pot, and Kasaya his spear and shield.
The sun had tinted the cliff ahead a reddish brown, the colonnades of Djeser Djeseru a pale red-orange. The air was warm, barely stirred by a light breeze; the day might well grow unbearable. A smell of fish, onions, and burned oil lingered, drifting from the rough workmen’s huts built between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple. Several crows hopped around a garbage heap behind the interconnected buildings, squawking, picking clean discarded bones, squabbling over the other meager offerings they found.
“You’re no longer boys,” Bak said. “You must learn to guard your tongues.”
“Yes, sir,” Hori and Kasaya chorused.
Shouts drew their attention to the quarry north of the causeway, a foreman yelling at men pulling a sledge laden with a single massive block of stone up a steep ramp from its depths. Bak eyed the huge, irregular hole. The thuds of mallets on chisels carried on the air, but he could not see the men toiling below. The bottom was too deep. Was this the quarry from which stone was taken for the temple? he wondered. Or was it of too poor a quality? Had it been used instead to level the causeway, filling the low spots, making the ascent smooth and gradual?
“Most of the men who toil at our sovereign’s new temple are simple souls from the countryside. Whatever you say, they’ll take as fact. You must give them no reason for misunderstanding.”
“What questions shall we ask?” Kasaya had accompanied Bak more than once on a quest for a slayer. Reality miti-gated his enthusiasm, but not entirely. He was too glad to be released from his parents’ dwelling.
“Start first by showing interest in the men’s tasks,” he said. “No matter how high or low, they’re sure to enjoy speaking of their accomplishments. When you’re certain they’re well satisfied with themselves and with you, direct the conversation toward the many accidents, the malign spirit, the chief architect and craftsmen and foremen. After you’ve led them along the path of your choice, let their talk go where it will. You never know what they might reveal.”
The trio walked across the sunny terrace, weaving a path through the rough and not so rough blocks of stone and the men who were completing the various architectural elements so they could be positioned within the temple. The sand felt hot beneath their feet and the men they passed reeked of sweat. Hori and Kasaya looked upon the scene wide-eyed and enthralled. The workmen looked furtively upon them, very much aware of who they were. Bak could almost feel their apprehension, their mistrust of the authority he and his men represented.
He wished Imsiba were with him, or another, equally experienced man. He knew well Kasaya’s response to adversity, knew his faults and strengths, the way he thought, the way he fought. He had no doubt the Medjay would give his life for him if need be. Hori was another matter. He knew the youth only in the safety of the garrison, a young man wed to his scribal pallet, ever willing to do what had to be done, one whose heart was generous and whose good humor was neverending. A young man with no training in the arts of war, one whose physical courage was untried and unknown.
With luck and the help of the gods, Hori’s bravery and stamina would not be tested while they set about snaring Montu’s slayer and discovering the reason for the many accidents.
A workman told them they would find Pashed at the base of the southern retaining wall, and so they did. He stood with the foreman Seked near the mouth of the tomb in which Montu’s body had been found, watching a line of boys carrying baskets of sand and rubble to the hole, where a second chain of youths relayed them inside and sent out the emptied baskets for another load. Men were laying foundation stones to within a pace or so of the hole, anticipating the moment when the tomb shaft would be packed with earth and they could build over it. As Bak and
