because when trouble arises on a construction site, the first man to be suspected of wrongdoing is the one who keeps the accounts and minds the store?”
The chief scribe laughed. The pair behind him exchanged an uneasy look.
“Will you take a seat, sir?” Ramose pointed to a low stool he evidently reserved for worthy guests and returned to his mat. “I’m afraid the beer we have is of poor quality, but on a hot day such as this, a bitter brew is better than none.”
He offered a jar, which Bak accepted. The beer on the southern frontier, usually strong and sometimes appalling, had toughened Bak’s palate to a point where he could drink almost anything. He found the warm, thick, acrid liquid a close match to the worst he had ever tasted.
“As you must know,” he said, “Amonked has asked me to look into Montu’s death and find a cause for the many accidents here at Djeser Djeseru.”
“Yes, sir.” The chief scribe was in his middle years and of medium height, neither slim nor heavy. He had short, straight dark hair and the ordinary features of a man easily lost in a crowd.
“Montu’s life was taken by another man,” Bak said.
“So we’ve heard.”
Bak saw not a speck of sadness or regret. Nor did he see sorrow on the faces of the other two scribes. He was reminded of Pashed’s words upon seeing the body: “May the gods be blessed,” he had said. “Do you think his death related to the series of accidents?”
“If he was slain by another man. .” Ramose’s eyes leaped to Bak’s face, sudden concern clouding his features.
“Is there some question about the accidents? Does Amonked believe they were brought about not by carelessness and the whims of the gods, but were deliberate attempts to disrupt construction with injury and death?”
The older scribe looked up from a scroll onto which he was transferring notes from a pile of hand-size limestone flakes. “The workmen talk of a malign spirit.”
Bak gave him a sharp look. Could he, an educated man, truly believe such superstitious nonsense? Or was he jesting? “I seek Montu’s slayer in the company of men, not among the demons of darkness. And if I find the accidents to be something other than what they’ve all along appeared to be, I’ll look for a man, not a spirit.”
Ramose scowled at the old man. “This, sir, is
Amonemhab, father to my first wife, long deceased. He’s a good man, but ofttimes the bane of my existence.”
Looking disdainful, Amonemhab tossed the shard onto a pile of discarded flakes. “Could a man cause so many accidents? I think not. Too many occurred in the light of day with other men looking on.”
“Not all were so straightforward,” Ramose said.
A short burst of metallic clangs drew Bak’s eyes toward a patch of shade beneath a lean-to a dozen or so paces away.
Two metalsmiths, dripping sweat, toiled in the heat of a small pottery furnace, sharpening and repairing tools collected from the workmen. Ramose believed in keeping a close eye on the equipment for which he was responsible.
“With rumors of a malign spirit planting fear in men’s hearts, they might well stumble or fumble or tumble, bringing about any number of accidents.” Bak drank from his beer jar, taking care not to stir up the sediment that lay in the bottom. “I know for a fact that a malign spirit did not slay Montu.”
“He was not well liked,” Ramose admitted.
“I see no sadness among the three of you.”
“Montu was a swine!” the old man said with venom.
Ramose shot a warning look his way. “You must listen to Amonemhab with half an ear, Lieutenant. He’s become outspoken in his dotage and not always rational.”
“Humph!” the old man said, glaring.
“Grandfather knows of what he speaks,” the apprentice said. “No one liked Montu.”
“Ani. .” Ramose scowled disapproval.
With a fond smile, Amonemhab ruffled his grandson’s hair.
“If you seek his slayer among the men who toil at Djeser Djeseru, Lieutenant, you must look at every man here.”
Thinking of corruption, of stolen equipment and false records, Bak’s eyes settled on Ramose. “Was he a man who found fault with the work of others and threatened to lay bare their mistakes?”
The chief scribe was not a stupid man. He realized what Bak was getting at and his voice grew hard, taut. “He tried to find fault, yes, but when he sniffed around here, he found nothing wrong. We allow no man to get away with what isn’t his, nor do we take more than our share. We allow no theft of supplies and equipment, nor do we condone the distribution of too much or too little in return for the effort a man makes each day. The records we keep are as accurate as men can make them, the quantities checked and rechecked.”
“Then you won’t object if my scribe Hori looks over your accounts.”
“I do object.” Ramose’s attempt at civility came close to failing. “I object wholeheartedly, but can I prevent it? No.
Nor will I make the attempt.”
“Amonked’s scribes have found no fault.” The old man gave Bak a sour look. “Do you think that boy of yours has a sharper eye?”
“Montu was a disgusting man!” Ani’s hatred burned bright on his face. “If you’re to find his slayer, look at the man himself, not us.”
Ramose hissed like a snake, trying to silence him. Which alerted Bak that another truth lay close to the surface of their hearts. He set his beer jar on the sand by his feet, crossed his arms over his breast, and stared hard at the boy. “Why do you feel so strongly about him?”
Ani looked down at the scroll in his lap, mumbled,
“Everyone hated him. Not me alone. Everyone.”
“You know as well as I that no secrets remain hidden for long, especially in a place of work such as this.” Bak spoke to the father and not the son. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but you can be sure I’ll soon learn. If not from you, from someone else. A tale built upon by the teller’s imagination, which may or may not be in your favor.”
The boy looked one way and another, refusing to meet his A PLACE OF DARKNESS
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father’s blame-filled eyes. Rather like a beetle caught in a deep bowl, scrabbling here and there and everywhere for a means of escape.
“All right,” Ramose said, his voice harsh, angry. “Montu made advances to my new wife. She’s young and I like to think her beautiful. That imbecile. .” He glared at his son, who looked mortified. “. . was born of my first wife, who died bearing me a daughter some years ago.”
“Montu went to our house while we toiled here.” The old man spat out the words; that he shared Ramose’s anger was plain. “He wanted the woman, said if she didn’t comply he’d send the three of us to the distant frontier. With no one in Waset to protect her, she’d have to submit.”
The boy’s gloom vanished in an unexpected grin. “He didn’t know her very well, did he, grandfather?”
A hint of a smile flickered through the old man’s anger.
“He grabbed her, tried to force her. She screamed for a servant, who came running. A mere child, but one of infinite courage. She hit him on the head with a stool, forcing him to release Ramose’s wife.”
“Paralyzed with fear at what she’d done, the servant backed off.” Ramose’s chin came up and his breast swelled with pride. “Fearing he’d not give up, my wife threw a hot brazier, which shattered on his back, throwing forth the smoldering fuel and burning him.”
“A well-deserved reward,” Bak said, “but I’m surprised he didn’t retaliate by sending you away.”
“Blackmail can go both ways.” Ramose bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “He thought because he was of exalted status, he could do as he wished. That same pride in his lofty position made him loath to be made to look the fool.”
