sepulcher in which jewelry had been seen. At least not until the men who were robbing the dead were snared and taken away.
“You see the bracelets,” Bak said, bending over the wrapped body, his eyes on the jewelry glittering in the torchlight. “They’re of similar workmanship to those I found in Buhen. I’d not be surprised to find that they all were made in a royal workshop.”
Menna knelt for a closer look. “If the shaft hadn’t been so securely closed, the stones too heavy for a few wretched robbers to move without discovery, I’d suspect the objects you found came from this very tomb.”
Bak could understand how tempting the thought was. To conclude that one tomb was being rifled was far more palat-able than the thought that several had been robbed. Which he was certain was the case. The jewelry he had found in the honey jar had been that of royalty. The individual in this small tomb had been important, but not so exalted.
“This makes me more certain than ever that the looted sepulchers are to be found in this area.” He had no authority to tell the guard officer how best to perform his task, but he had every right to ask a few questions. “Have you begun to look again at the cemeteries in western Waset? Especially those near here, where Nebhepetre Montuhotep, his successors, and their noble followers were entombed?”
Menna’s voice grew stiff, defensive. “I wanted first to finish the reports I spoke of earlier. Now that dreary task is complete, leaving me free to lead my men on a new search.”
He stood up, added with a stingy smile, “Never fear, Lieutenant. We’ll begin at first light tomorrow, retracing our steps once again, examining the burial places with the same diligence as before.”
With increased diligence, I hope, Bak thought.
The torch sputtered, emitting a puff of smoke. The odor of burned oil blended with the smell of decay and dry, dusty flowers.
“Don’t misunderstand me.” Bak turned away from the body and, holding the flickering torch before them, led the way down the horizontal tunnel. “I’m in no way criticizing you. I know from experience how difficult it is to snare a man whose very life depends upon remaining unknown and free.”
“I’ve had no experience in pursuing criminals of so vile a nature,” Menna admitted, “but I well know the cemeteries in western Waset, and I know even better the men who dwell here, many of whom look with a covetous eye upon the tombs and the vast wealth they believe they contain.”
“Do you have suspects?”
“I suspect them all.”
In other words, Bak thought, he has no idea who the thief is. He vowed again to keep his eyes open-wide open. And, at the first opportunity, to explore the burial places around Djeser Djeseru and the neighboring temple.
At the top of the shaft the guard Menna had selected had replaced Ineni. Imen was a man of medium height and years with ruddy weathered skin, strong muscles, and the work-hardened hands of one who had toiled in the fields or on the water for much of his life. He looked to be tough and tena-cious, a man not easily frightened. Warned not to gossip, he stood alone. Bak wondered if he would maintain his silence after they left.
“Montu was a pompous ass.” The chief artist Heribsen was either totally without guile or did not care what Bak thought. “The less I had to do with him the happier I was. I went out of my way to avoid him.”
“This temple site is large, but much of it is open to view,”
Bak said. “You surely saw him at a distance.”
The gnome-like man led him through the gap in the incomplete wall and into the temple and its unfinished courtyard. The lord Re had dropped behind the western mountain, leaving much of the building in the shade of the cliff that rose high above it. “He may’ve been slain two days ago, you say?”
“We found him yesterday, as you know. He died the night before or the previous day, I’d guess. Common sense says in the night, but. .” He spread his hands wide, shrugged.
“Who knows?”
“I did see him that day,” Heribsen admitted. “Near mid-afternoon, it was. I’d come up here to take a look at the sanctuary and I saw him on the terrace below.” He laughed-at himself, Bak felt sure. “I slipped inside, hiding from him, plain and simple.”
Bak smiled, sharing the jest, but quickly sobered. “Why did you feel so strongly about him?”
“He was critical of anything and everything. He’d strut into the sanctuary or one of the chapels, brush and pallet in hand.
He’d look around at the drawings, approach a figure already corrected and ready to carve-never one that needed altering, mind you-and he’d make some nonsensical change.”
“Always?” Bak walked into the antechamber of the chapel to the lord Re. He strolled around, looking at the lovely colored reliefs of Maatkare Hatshepsut making offerings, each image creating an ideal of royal piety. The colors were as vivid and bright as if touched by the sun. “These walls look perfect to me, blessed by the gods.”
The chief artist was too involved in his complaint to notice the compliment. “At first, I and my men were furious, which added zest to the stew, making Montu all the meaner.
He began to demand that the reliefs be changed, a far more harmful and difficult task than altering a drawing.” He ran a loving hand over a brightly painted, deftly carved image of the lord Amon. “This was one of the first, I recall. He insisted the face be identical to that of our sovereign, softened to look like a woman. I was furious and so was the man who’d carved it. You see what a marvelous job he did. What dolt would change that?”
Bak frowned, puzzled. “I don’t understand. You say Montu made ridiculous changes, yet this relief is nothing less than perfection.”
“Your praise is appreciated-and well-founded.” Heribsen’s sudden smile was like night turning to day. “This is the original figure, which he told us to alter and we failed to do.”
Bak eyed the little man with interest, the bright twinkling eyes, the laughter that threatened to bubble forth at any moment. “Explain yourself, Heribsen. Your good spirits tell me you won a battle Montu never realized he lost.”
“You’re a perceptive man, Lieutenant.” The chief artist rubbed his hands together in delight. “We knew Montu wouldn’t return for a couple of days, so we went on with the work as originally drawn, praying he’d forget, agreeing we’d all pay the price if he remembered.” A chuckle bubbled out.
“He did forget! He went instead to another relief, demanding changes there.”
“How often did this happen?” Bak asked, smiling.
“Regularly.” Heribsen had trouble containing his laughter.
“His stupidity became a joke the width and breadth of Djeser Djeseru. I’ve been told that the other craftsmen, all of whom he plagued as often as he did us, adapted the ploy to their own situations.”
“Your good humor does you credit, Heribsen. Pashed does not speak so lightly of Montu.”
The chief artist grew serious. “He bore the weight of Montu’s indolence and haughty attitude. He could not so easily shrug him off.”
“Amonked told me Montu was an accomplished architect, and Pashed agreed.”
“He was, yes, but he was not an artist.” Heribsen led him out of the antechamber, into the unfinished court. “He knew where a column should be placed to best advantage and he could tell us to place reliefs of offerings in a chamber where offerings were to be made, but he knew nothing of drawing the human face or figure.”
With the sun’s bright rays unable to reach the open court, the mirrors could throw no light inside the surrounding rooms. The artists who toiled within the sanctuary, the first chamber to be so deprived, were hurrying down the ramp to the terrace. Other men were filing out of the southern antechamber, preparing to leave.
Bak raised a hand to stop them. “I know how eager you must be to go to your village and your homes, but I’m sorely in need of help.”
The eight men bunched together outside the door, query-ing each other with looks that ranged from fear to curiosity.
“Yes, sir?” a tentative voice piped up from among them.
“We’ve never seen the malign spirit,” a tall, thin man said.
“Never,” said a grizzled old man, “and so we told your scribe and the Medjay.”
Heribsen glared. “Malign spirit! Bah!”
“I’ve another, different question,” Bak said, giving them a smile he hoped would reassure them. “One my men failed to ask.”
