Smiling at an especially humorous erotic sketch of an aging lover with a courtesan, he reached deeper into the basket. The shard he retrieved was the shoulder and neck of a broken jar. Curious, he turned it right side up. His breath caught in his throat. The sketch on its outer surface was incomplete, but enough remained to recognize the wing tips and rear segment of a bee and what might well be two beads in a necklace. It had not been drawn by as accomplished a hand as most of the other sketches in the basket. In fact, it looked very much like the drawing on the jar he had confiscated in Buhen.
Whether Montu had picked up the shard by chance or had deliberately hidden it among the others, Bak had no way of knowing. Could the architect have made the drawing himself? Could he have been the man stealing from the old tombs? Only a mission as serious as that, one that required secret activity, would account for his presence at Djeser Djeseru in the dead of night.
With rising excitement, he searched through the remaining shards. He found nothing more, which forced him to admit the shard could have been thrown away by anyone. Still, Montu could have gone into the valley to rob a tomb and by chance have bumped into the malign spirit. That man, fearing the terrible death he would face for causing the many deadly accidents, would most certainly have slain one who could, and no doubt would, air his identity.
Bak had not once considered Montu a tomb robber, but with the shard in his hand, the possibility filled his heart.
Tamping down his excitement, telling himself he had no real proof, he returned to the main floor and told a comely young female servant he wished to speak again with Mutnefret.
“I’m sorry, sir, but she’s gone to a sculptor’s studio to pur-chase a votive statue upon which our master’s name will be carved. She plans to have the image placed in the mansion of the lord Amon so it can share in the bounty of offerings presented each day to the greatest of gods.”
Is she easing her conscience because she doesn’t care that he’s dead, Bak wondered, or does she really believe him worthy of offerings? A man who cheated his co-workers out of his fair share of effort, one who may have robbed the dead. “Is mistress Sitre available?”
“You wish to speak with me, Lieutenant?” Sitre asked, stepping through the doorway. She waved her hand to dismiss the servant, dropped onto the stool Bak had occupied earlier, and offered him the other seat. Her eyes were clear, beautifully made up. Her sobs had evidently been of short duration. “Did you find anything of interest in that wretched Montu’s place of work?”
“The basket of pottery shards,” he said, opting to stand.
“Do you know when he brought them home?”
The young woman was too preoccupied with adjusting her broad beaded collar to notice the shard in his hand. “A week or two ago, I suppose.”
“Was he in the habit of collecting them personally or did he ask others to do it for him?”
“Are you jesting, Lieutenant?” Her eyes darted toward him and she laughed, a harsh, jarring sound from one so lovely. “He’d never have stooped so low as to go through a trash dump. Especially not at Djeser Djeseru, where dozens of men lesser than he would’ve see him.”
Her dislike of her mother’s husband colored everything she said, irritating Bak, making him wonder how much could be at best an exaggeration, at worst untrue. “Do you have any idea who might’ve gathered them for him?”
“The chief scribe Ramose has an apprentice, his son, I believe.” She plucked a lily from the bowl and held it to her nose. The scent was strong, too sweet for Bak’s pleasure.
“Montu liked to take advantage of the boy. Of Ramose, really, since he could not refuse.”
Vowing to speak with the youth as soon as he returned to Djeser Djeseru, Bak rested his shoulder against a column.
“Are bees kept at your country estate?” Ordinarily he would not have asked such a question of a young woman of means, but if Pashed had been correct in saying she and her mother toiled beside their servants, she would know.
“Of course. Doesn’t every farmer keep them?”
He could see she was puzzled by the new subject. “Do you use all the honey you harvest, or do you have excess to trade?”
“I think we use it all, but you’d have to ask our scribe Teti to be sure. Why do you wish to know?”
He held out the shard so she could see the sketch. “I found this among Montu’s possessions. Do you identify your honey containers in this manner?”
“We don’t, no, but I think I’ve seen the symbol somewhere.”
“Can you recall where?”
“At the market here in Waset? At someone’s estate?” She waved the flower slowly back and forth beneath her nose, trying to recall. “Must’ve been a long time ago. The answer eludes me.”
“A neighbor, perhaps? Or someone with whom Montu was friendly?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Disappointed, he dropped onto the second stool. “Did Montu name the man who told him he also saw the malign spirit?”
“Are you serious?” Her laugh was scathing. “He thought himself the most important man in Kemet, Lieutenant. No others equaled him and none were worthy of mention except in passing.”
“He gave no hint, such as the man’s occupation?”
“He referred to him merely as ‘another man.’ ”
“With Montu no longer among the living, will you wed the young soldier you wished to wed before he interfered?”
He was fishing and he knew it, throwing out a line in the hope of catching almost anything.
“My mother told you of him?” Sitre’s voice rang with indignation. “After letting that wretched husband of hers be-troth me to another, how dare she speak of him!”
“She was making excuses for you. Offering a reason for your dislike of Montu.”
“Montu was vile, plain and simple.” She let out a scornful snort. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off me, yet he dared not touch me. He dared not risk angering my mother, losing her wealth and property. And he dared not soil me, for he’d promised me to a wealthy nobleman, thinking to raise his own position in life. Thinking to walk side by side with one familiar with the corridors of the royal house. Thinking he’d be considered an equal by men of royal blood.”
“Montu sounds to me like a swine,” Bak said, welcoming the opening she had unknowingly offered. “Dishonest through and through.”
Sitre looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he was out-and-out dishonest, Lieutenant. He had what I’ve always thought of as a convenient honesty. An honesty prompted by whatever he needed or desired at the time.”
Her answer seemed sincere, not inspired by her dislike of the man. Which led Bak to wonder exactly what Montu had hoped to attain that had driven him to rifle the ancient tombs, putting at risk a life of relative ease and luxury, a life most men would envy.
Chapter Nine
“You found this in Montu’s home?” Lieutenant Menna took the shard from Bak, walked to the door of his office, and looked at it in the better light of the portico that surrounded the spacious courtyard outside.
Bak followed, escaping from the tiny, cramped room with its overabundance of scrolls and pottery jars whose gaping mouths revealed additional documents. “The sketch of the bee looks too much like the one I found in Buhen not to be by the same hand.”
“And, like the jar you found there, you think this may’ve been used to smuggle jewelry.”
“I don’t know,” Bak admitted, “but we can’t overlook the possibility.”
“We.” Menna walked a few paces along the portico, swung around, and walked back. “I know you mean well, Lieutenant, and believe it or not, I do appreciate your offer of help.”
Bak clamped his mouth shut tight. He had come to assist, not quarrel.
