Menna glanced at three perfectly groomed men-guard officers in the royal house, Bak suspected-standing in the shade of a large sycamore in the center of the court. They were deep in conversation, much too preoccupied to pay attention to what Menna had to say. The breeze had stiffened, carrying the smell of horses from a nearby stable. Dogs barked not far away, animals held in the kennels Bak had come upon while searching the large police compound for Menna’s office. Animals used for tracking, guard duty, desert patrol.
“I freely admit I’m an infantry officer with no experience at investigating criminal activity,” Menna said, “and I must confess that these thefts have me stymied. But I’ll learn best through my own mistakes and successes.”
Bak realized the guard officer was trying hard to tread a middle ground, to have his way without offending. He acknowledged his understanding with a nod. “I was a chariotry officer when I was sent to Buhen to stand at the head of the Medjay police. I knew nothing about my new task and had no one to instruct me. I erred more than once, and I’d like to believe I’ll never make the same mistakes again.”
“I’ve held this assignment for three years.” Menna’s tone was light, meant to be cynical, but it carried an edge of bitterness. “The guards who report to me have excelled in laying hands on men of no consequence who steal from burial parties, from people who visit the tombs of their justified dead, even from their fellow workers. I myself have sur-passed all others in preparing reports about their many small successes.”
Bak smiled at a jest that was obviously too close to the truth to seem funny to Menna. “Amonked says you know very well the cemeteries in and around western Waset and the people who dwell in the area. I’d think that would ease your task considerably.”
“The people know me and I believe they like me, but they won’t confide in me. Any theft they might mention could lead to the arrest of a brother or cousin.”
“Perhaps you’re too close to the problem and in need of another, less involved man’s thoughts.” Bak quickly raised his hand, stifling an objection. “Should you wish to talk, I’ll not tread on your toes. That I vow.”
Menna stared at him, undecided. After an interminable silence, he found stools for the two of them and ordered a servant to bring beer. He spoke at first haltingly, guarding his words, but the desire to speak out, the need, quickly banished these signs of mistrust. He had thoroughly inspected all the cemeteries in western Waset, he said, and had found no disturbed shafts. He’d considered the ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep as the key to the rifled tombs, and had searched the desert plain and surrounding cliffs with no luck. He had personally examined each tomb opened by chance by the workmen building Djeser Djeseru and had watched as each had been sealed and covered over.
“You appear to have left no pebble unturned,” Bak said.
“I’ve missed something. What it is, I can’t imagine.”
“More than one man would be involved. Digging out a tomb shaft is hard labor.”
“Not many, I’d think. The more who know, the greater the chance of a loose tongue.”
“You’ve heard no rumors?”
“Only that ancient jewelry was confiscated at the harbor; therefore, an old tomb had to’ve been broken into. There’s been a considerable amount of speculation as to who might’ve done the deed, but no one can name the thief with any certainty. Each time I question men I suspect, they prove themselves innocent.”
The robbers had to be a close-knit group and exceptionally careful not to be seen or found out.
Bak picked up the shard, which he had laid on the ground beside his stool, and looked at the image of the bee. Could Montu have been rifling the old tombs? he wondered again.
As before, the query took him back to the other, equally important question: what other reason would he have had for being at Djeser Djeseru in the dark of night? “What can you tell me of Montu?”
“The man was insufferable.” Menna nudged away with his toe a gray-striped cat that was sniffing his beer jar. “He’d threaten at the drop of a wig to complain to Senenmut each time I suggested changes to improve security at Djeser Djeseru.”
Bak’s interest heightened. If Montu had been rifling the old tombs. . “What kind of suggestions did he spurn?”
“I can’t remember one that he accepted. At first, he infuri-ated me, but when I realized he treated everyone with equal venom, I learned to ignore him.”
“He showed no specific interest in precautions that would interfere with tomb robbers?”
“None.” Menna’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think he was the man I’ve been seeking?”
Bak shrugged. “I found the shard in his office, which is suggestive, but it was in a basket of similar shards that I feel certain were collected from a trash heap at Djeser Djeseru.”
“He was a vile man. I’d not put thievery past him.”
Menna’s brow furrowed in thought. “In fact, now that you’ve drawn my attention to him, I can’t think of a man more likely. As an architect, he’d know better than most where to find the old tombs. I must look into the possibility.”
His expression turned from satisfaction to consternation and he muttered a curse.
“What problem do you see?” Bak asked, puzzled.
A wry smile touched the guard officer’s face. “Montu’s wife’s daughter. Sitre. She’s lovely. I’ve admired her from afar for some time, but never approached her because I couldn’t bear the sight of him. Upon hearing of his death, I hoped. .” He let out a soft, cynical laugh. “If I prove him guilty of tomb robbery, I’ll humiliate her mother, and the woman won’t allow me near Sitre.”
Bak clapped him on the shoulder. “I must admit I couldn’t tell exactly what Mutnefret was feeling, but I sensed no depth to her mourning. I suspect she secretly feels she owes the malign spirit-or whoever slew him-a debt of gratitude.”
Menna gave Bak a sharp look. “Was he slain by the malign spirit, do you think?”
“By the man who pretends to be a malign spirit,” Bak corrected.
“A man? Are you certain?” Menna’s face clouded, doubt filled his voice. “I, too, have questioned its existence at times, but men who dwell in the workmen’s huts have actually seen it.”
“Lights and shadows. Nothing more. And those far away.”
Bak found it difficult to believe that an intelligent man such as Menna could be so naive, but he should know better by this time. Other equally intelligent men clung to the belief as a bird holds fast to a branch in a high wind. “I climbed the cliff yesterday, after the accident at the northern retaining wall, and I saw signs of a man. A two- legged, thinking creature made the boulders fall, not some ethereal being.”
“You’re certain?”
“I found a fresh scar where a lever was used to pry away a section of rock.”
Menna looked thoughtful. “Could Montu have been the malign spirit?”
“He was not among the living yesterday,” Bak pointed out.
“The cliff face has fallen before. How do you know the scar was not made several weeks ago?”
“It looked fresh.”
“We’ve had no rain and no wind to speak of, nothing to make it lose its shape and color.”
“The wind blew hard yesterday morning,” Bak said with a touch of impatience.
“Did it not blow from north to south? Coming over the ridge as it did, would it not have left the cliff free of wind?”
“You could be right,” Bak admitted grudgingly, “but I know in my heart that you err. The scar was fresh, as were marks we found of a man who’d brushed out his footprints.
Montu may well have been your tomb robber, but he was not the malign spirit. Your task may be eased, but I must continue with mine.”
As a small child, Bak had many times visited the house of life with his widowed father, who could spend hours hunting through the ancient documents for an obscure poultice or incantation or the source of some lesser known malady and its treatment. Bored with waiting, he had sometimes ventured into other parts of the vast holdings around the mansion of the lord Amon, the many storehouses, offices, and dwellings, the narrow lanes and unexpected courtyards.
Each time, he had lost his way and some kindly priest or scribe had returned him to his worried parent.
Years had passed and, though he found the sacred precinct smaller than he had thought it in the past, the many buildings and crowded lanes were no less confusing. Directed to one place and another by priests and scribes scurrying around like ants, preparing for an upcoming religious festival, it took him over a half hour to find Kaemwaset. As he approached the building, he realized he was no more than one hundred paces from a gate that
