Chapter Five
“We talked with twelve men and not one among them doubts that a malign spirit walks within this valley.” Hori laid his writing implements on the lap of a rough-finished white limestone seated statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut and bent to scratch an ankle. “They speak with certainty, but when pressed for details, they say, ‘Oh, Ahmose told me. . ’
or ‘Montu said. . ’ or ‘Sobekhotep swears he saw. . ’ ”
“You spoke with whom?” Bak asked.
“The craftsmen toiling in the sanctuary and memorial chapels. We had no time to speak with anyone else.”
Rubbing the sweat from his face, Bak dropped onto a large irregular block of sandstone lying on the terrace between the completed portion of the southern retaining wall and the ramp that led downward. He could hear the men below singing an age-old workmen’s song, its words repetitive, as monotonous as their task of relaying the final baskets of fill into the tomb where Montu had been slain.
“Interesting,” he said. “I saw no fear among them yesterday, yet the sanctuary and chapels are places of relative soli-tude. Places where a malign spirit might seek them out.”
Kasaya sat down on the base of the white statue and leaned back against his sovereign’s stone legs. “Perhaps they feel the lord Amon’s presence.”
“It’s the heart of the temple, yes,” Hori scoffed, “but it’s not been sanctified.”
The Medjay’s expression remained earnest, untroubled by the scribe’s teasing. “The spirit’s only been seen at night, and seldom up there.”
“Most of the accidents have taken place in the light of day,” Bak pointed out, “while the men were toiling at their various tasks.”
“No artists have been slain, sir.” Hori rested a hip against a limestone thigh. “One man was hurt some months ago. A scaffold collapsed when he was outlining the images high on the face of a wall. He was thrown to the floor and his arm was broken. If the malign spirit loosened the rope that bound the poles, it did so at night.”
“They now look more closely at their scaffolds,” Kasaya said.
“And each morning,” Hori added, “they bend a knee in what’s left of the temple of our sovereign’s worthy ancestors, Djeserkare Amonhotep and his revered mother Ahmose Nefertari.”
The youth pointed east toward the remains of mudbrick walls that were gradually being consumed as the terrace was extended. One outer wall rose to shoulder height, but the remaining walls were lower, their bricks carried away to be used elsewhere in construction ramps and as fill. What little remained of the lower courses and foundation was covered over as the terrace was lengthened.
Silently cursing the superstitions that made men so illogi-cal, Bak eyed the workmen’s huts clumped together like a small, impoverished village on the broad strip of sand between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. The chief scribe Ramose dwelt there much of the time, though he had talked of a more comfortable home in a village at the edge of the river valley.
“Where’s this malign spirit most often seen?” he asked.
“Sometimes over there.” Hori pointed toward the ruined temple beyond the huts. “Sometimes in the old tombs on the slopes overlooking this valley.” He waved his hand in the general direction of distant colonnades visible on the hillsides. “Sometimes on this terrace among the unfinished statues and architectural elements.”
Kasaya’s eyes darted around the immediate vicinity. He tried to appear casual, tried hard not to betray his fear that the malign spirit might be hidden among the surrounding blocks of stone.
“Almost everywhere, you’re saying.”
“It’s never gone near the workmen’s huts, so they say.”
“Amazing,” Bak said, not at all amazed.
He looked upward, but could see nothing of the heart of the temple. The upper colonnade that would serve as its facade was a long way from being finished, as was the wall behind it, but the terrace on which he stood was too low to allow him to see inside. The workmen’s huts in the hollow between the two temples were considerably lower. “Where are the night guards when the malign spirit shows itself?
Have they ever seen it?”
“We’ll talk with them next, sir,” the scribe said.
“Ask them.” Bak scowled. “Also, you must find out what they do when they see it. Do they run away? Or have they tried to catch it?” He suspected they turned their backs, preferring to have seen nothing rather than risk the gods alone knew what in a vain attempt to catch a wraith.
“Catch it, sir?” Kasaya asked, looking incredulous.
“If they reported to me, they’d at least try. They’d better.”
Bak left no doubt how he felt about men who failed to do their duty. To Hori, he asked, “What appearance does this spirit take?”
“It’s never seen in the daylight, as you said yourself, sir.
At night it’s either a dark and distant shadow in the moonlight or a spot of light flitting among the stones.”
Bak looked thoughtfully at the cluster of workmen’s huts.
Unpainted mudbrick. Light roofs of reed, palm frond, and mud construction. A lean-to added here and there. “The craftsmen dwell in villages outside this valley, do they not?”
“Most dwell in a village near the end of the ridge to the north.” Lieutenant Menna, who had approached so silently none of the three had heard him, came the rest of the way up the ramp and crossed to them. “It’s within easy walking distance so they can go home each night and return the next morning.”
“That’s why none have seen the malign spirit,” Bak said to Hori and Kasaya. “They’re never here during the hours of darkness when it shows itself.”
“Then that’s why they know nothing of Montu’s death,”
the scribe said. “They weren’t here the night he was slain.”
“If he was slain in the night,” Bak said.
Grimacing, Menna brushed a faint trace of dust off his kilt. “Your morning, it seems, has been as unproductive as mine.”
Bak studied the guard officer, who was almost as neat and clean as when they had first met. Dusty feet and a rivulet of sweat trickling down his breast betrayed no greater effort than walking from the river to Djeser Djeseru. He could not resist asking, “You’ve been looking for rifled tombs?”
Menna looked sincerely rueful. “Unfortunately not. I had reports to dictate. I’d barely finished when I received Pashed’s message that another tomb had been found.”
Rising to his feet, Bak looked across the blocks of stone toward Ineni, the man Pashed had assigned to watch the open shaft. The guard, a lean man of medium height with a reddish birthmark on his neck, was leaning against the reclining lion statue, talking to a dozen or so men. Telling tales of a treasure, he felt sure. Irritated, he asked, “Did you bring the priest Kaemwaset?”
“I couldn’t find him, so I thought it best I come without him. As soon as I return to Waset, I’ll look further. With luck and the favor of the lord Amon, we’ll return before nightfall.”
Bak cursed beneath his breath. “I hope the tomb is made safe before dark. I’ll sleep better tonight if it’s closed and sealed for eternity.”
“You saw jewelry on the body, Pashed said.”
“We did.”
Menna stared at the cluster of men near the reclining lion.
“Ineni is a good man, but I think it best I assign Imen to the task. He’s more responsible by far-and not nearly so talka-tive.” Looking none too enthusiastic, the officer added, “After I’ve dealt with that, I must see the tomb.”
Bak glanced around in search of Pashed, but the chief architect was nowhere to be seen. Rather than take the time to search for him, he said, “I’ll go with you.”
He did not mistrust Menna, but he was firmly convinced that no man should enter a tomb alone. Especially a
