container. Mud deposited by chance when the jar was plugged and partially wiped away? he wondered. Or mud deliberately plastered on the jar to cover a crack? A device to gain full value when full value might not be warranted. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and scratched the streak. Dried mud flaked away, revealing a long and very fine irregular crack.
Nenwaf’s face looked skeletal, his smile stretched tight.
Bak tamped down his elation and, with a grave look at Imsiba, stood up. “We’d best keep this jar, Sergeant, and examine the rest more thoroughly. Honey, beer, the lot. Only the lord Amon knows what Nenwaf thinks to pass off to his customers.”
One of the Medjays, a hulking young man named Kasaya, stepped forward to loom over Nenwaf. His countenance was dark and threatening. “Perhaps the evil demon that carries death has entered the honey through that crack.”
Nenwaf took a quick step back, bumping against the deckhouse. “The jar is mine, Lieutenant. One I mean to keep for my own use. You can’t take it from me.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll give you its value and more.”
“More?” Bak asked, curious as to exactly how valuable the jar was to the trader.
“Five times more. Enough to share with all these Medjays.”
Bak exchanged an enigmatic look with Imsiba, a look that could have meant anything.
The trader noticed. “All right. Ten times more. Twenty!”
Kasaya looked startled. Another Medjay whistled.
Bak eyed Nenwaf, his expression speculative. “Kasaya, go forward to the crew’s hearth and bring back a bowl. I wish to see for myself honey of such immense value.”
Nenwaf leaped forward, reaching for the jar. Bak jerked it away. Imsiba grabbed the trader by the upper arm and flung him at two Medjays, who caught him between them and held him tight. As Kasaya walked away, the trader pleaded for release, swore his offer had been misunderstood. The more he babbled, the more convinced Bak was that whatever the jar contained would be well worth the long, painstaking inspection.
Kasaya returned, silencing Nenwaf. The Medjays and scribe came close so they, too, could see what was worth so large a bribe.
Bak broke away the plug, drawing a moan from deep within the trader’s breast, and tipped the jar over the grayish bowl Kasaya held out to him. Imsiba and the men stood silent, rapt. A large glob of thick golden honey dropped from the jar’s mouth. For a long moment the viscous liquid ceased to flow. Then the honey again burst free and a solid object dripping with liquid gold dropped into the puddle at the bottom of the bowl. Immediately another fell and another and another, solid drops of gold and color falling with the slowly pouring liquid. After the sixth object dropped from the jar, the flow continued unabated, revealing nothing further entombed within.
Bak held out the bowl so all could get a better look. Soft murmurs of awe and wonder burst forth. Two bracelets and four rings lay in the small golden pool. Jewelry of an elaborate design made of gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and turquoise. He drew his dagger, fished a bracelet from the thick, sticky substance, and held it, dripping, above the bowl.
A circlet of gold and precious stones hung from the pointed tip of the blade.
Nenwaf whimpered. And no wonder.
Bak, the sole man among them who could read, pointed to an oval symbol of protection, which traditionally surrounded the names of the kings of Kemet, on back of the pieces. “ ‘Nebhepetre Montuhotep,’ ” he read aloud.
“I didn’t know what the jar held!” Nenwaf sobbed. “I was told only that it was valuable. That I’d lose my life if I didn’t deliver it unopened and intact.”
His words were lost among the indignant and angry growls of the group. Nebhepetre Montuhotep had ruled the land of Kemet many generations ago, long before Buhen was built. He was one of the first rulers to come from Waset, one of the first to be buried there. The jewelry was that of a woman. The name within the oval indicated that she had been close to the king. A royal consort or a princess.
The jewelry had to have been taken from an ancient tomb.
The tomb of a woman of royal blood rifled and desecrated.
“You’re to be commended, my friend.” Imsiba clapped Bak hard on the back. “If you hadn’t recognized Nenwaf for what he is, he’d have carried on his smuggling for many years to come.”
“The infantry sergeant in Waset who stole the weapons we found in the beer jars has much to account for. As for the 8
Lauren Haney
jewelry. .” Bak glanced at the bowl he carried. “We’ve snared Nenwaf, but he’s a mere tool. I fear the one who robbed the tomb will seek a new way of exchanging its riches for a wealth he can use without raising the suspicion of others.”
“Did you believe Nenwaf when he said he didn’t know what was in the jar? That a man he barely knew asked him to pass it on to another man in Kerma?”
Bak looked up the quay at the prisoner, shackled between two Medjays who were hustling him into the deeply shadowed passage through the massive twin-towered gate of the fortress. Stark white towered walls framed the centrally located portal and a similar opening to the north, while a grand pylon gate rose to the south behind which stood the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen, the local manifestation of the falcon god. From these gates the three quays reached into the river. At the base of the fortified wall, two terraces formed broad steps along the water’s edge. Other than a sentry standing in a sliver of shade near each gate, not a creature stirred. Even the various ships’ crews had sought shelter from the heat. As had the sentry atop the wall, Bak suspected, for he could see no pacing figure on the battlements, as he should have.
“He certainly knew the jar contained something of value.”
Imsiba shook his head regretfully. “I fear we must apply the stick.”
“We’ve no choice.” Bak had slight faith in any truth gained by a beating, but for a deed so vile, not merely an af-front to the lady Maat, goddess of right and order, but the desecration of an ancient tomb, the cudgel must be used.
The commandant, the viceroy of Wawat, and the vizier himself would all demand firm questioning.
“Lieutenant Bak!” Hori, the chubby young police scribe, burst through the gate and raced down the quay. A large, floppy-eared white dog sped after him, nipping playfully at his heels and yapping.
“What now, I wonder?” Imsiba murmured.
Bak bestowed upon his friend a disgruntled frown. “We’ll have no swim this afternoon, I’ll wager.”
“Sir!” Skidding to a halt, the youth wiped the sweat from brow and upper lip. “Commandant Thuty wishes to see you, sir. Right away. In his private reception room. You and Imsiba.”
“Both of us?” To request the sergeant’s presence was highly unusual. “Do you know what he wants?”
“No, sir.” Hori grabbed the dog, an animal he had adopted as a puppy, by the scruff of the neck to quiet it. “It must be important, though. He stopped by the guardhouse soon after his ship came in from Ma’am. Before he went on to the residence.”
The commandant’s residence was the heart of the garrison, serving both as military headquarters and as a dwelling for Thuty and his family.
Hori gave the bowl Bak held a brief, distracted glance.
“You’re to stop by the garrison for Troop Captain Nebwa.
He wants to see all three of you at once.”
Bak and Imsiba exchanged worried looks. Whatever the commandant had to say, it must be serious indeed.
Bak, Imsiba, and Nebwa found Commandant Thuty
seated in his armchair in his private reception room, reading a scroll Bak recognized as the garrison daybook for the current week. Thuty raised his eyes from the document and beckoned them inside. Taking care where they walked lest they step on a toy or a discarded scroll or one of twenty or more arrows littering the floor, they crossed the room to stand before him. He had to have noticed the bowl in Bak’s hand, but he made no comment. Instead, he turned around and snapped out an order to a boy of five or so years who was trying to stuff arrows into a quiver. If any of the missiles survived the child’s rough treatment, the gods would surely have performed a miracle.
