Bak rested his shoulder against the altar where the priest would ascend the steps, after Djeser Djeseru was dedicated, and face the lord Khepre rising in the eastern sky. From where he stood, he could see the door to the anteroom. He doubted the malign spirit would slay this man-too much time had passed since the scribe had died- but he did not want a death on his conscience should he err. “Then you do believe Huni was slain so his lips would be sealed forever.”
“I’ve never doubted it. I never fail to thank the lord Amon that he told me in confidence, with no other man to hear or to know I knew what he saw.”
“What did he see?”
The artist gave him a wary look. “How can I be sure you’ll not pass my words on to anyone else?”
“I’ll tell my scribe and my Medjay. No one but them.”
The artist stared at a bright relief of Maatkare Hatshepsut making offerings to the lord Amon. His face revealed his inner turmoil: he wanted to speak out and was sorely tempted, but was afraid. At last he shook his head. “No. One of them might talk. A single word and I’ll be slain as Huni was.”
Bak’s mouth tightened. “I could leave this temple and within the hour tell ten or more men that Huni confided in you. How long do you think it would take for the tale to spread throughout Djeser Djeseru?” He did not like himself for making the threat, nor did he have any intention of following through, but the man must be made to talk.
The artist’s face paled. “You wouldn’t! My death would lie at your hands.”
“How many men have been slain by the one who calls himself the malign spirit? How many has he injured? If I don’t lay hands on him, how many more will be hurt or killed?”
The artist clapped his hands over his ears, refusing to listen.
Bak stepped forward, grabbed his wrists, and pulled them away from his head. “If you can help me snare him and you refuse, will not all future deaths and injuries prey on your conscience?”
The artist slumped to the floor, buried his face in his hands. “Don’t you realize how much I ache already? Each time an accident happens, each time a man dies or is hurt, I feel as if a red hot brand has been placed on my heart.”
“Tell me what Huni told you. It might ease your pain.”
Bak knelt before the artist and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Together let’s stop this death and destruction.”
The artist looked up, wiped tears from his cheeks. “Will you ask Pashed to send me away? To a place of safety? I’ve a brother in Mennufer. He’s an artist as I am, and he toils on the mansion of the lord Ptah. I could rest easy there.”
“I’ll speak with Amonked, our sovereign’s cousin.” Bak prayed the information this man held within his heart would be worth the effort of digging it from him.
The artist sucked in several deep breaths, calming himself. “Huni dwelt in the village where I live, at the base of the ridge to the north, near the cultivated land. He usually walked home with the rest of us, but now and again he’d remain behind, eat with the workmen, and sleep in Ramose’s hut. And so he did the night he saw the malign spirit.”
A swallow darted past Bak’s head, carrying an insect to a nest in the anteroom. He heard the faint cheeping of baby birds demanding sustenance. “The workmen won’t leave the huts after dark, and the malign spirit never draws near. What prompted him to strike out alone?”
“While sharing the evening meal, he remembered that he’d left his scribal pallet on a statue on the terrace. The white limestone, seated statue of our sovereign. He told me he drank much too much beer during the meal and after. It made him drowsy, but when he lay down on his sleeping mat, he couldn’t slumber. He kept thinking of his writing pallet. He finally decided he couldn’t leave it there overnight; he must get it.”
“The beer thinking for him.”
“Yes, sir.” The artist lifted himself off the floor and sat on the bottom step leading up the side of the altar. “He climbed the ramp to the terrace, taking nothing with him but a jar of beer. At the top, he felt in need of a drink.”
“He took no torch or lamp?”
“No, sir. The moon was full, the night bright. And he knew exactly where he’d left the pallet.”
Bak nodded, well able to imagine the scene. A man besotted, a moonlit night, a terrace inhabited by unfinished statues, and tales of a malign spirit filling his heart.
“He tipped the jar to his lips,” the artist went on, “and suddenly he saw a white ghostly figure flitting among the statues and architectural elements.”
“The white statue would look ghostly in the dark.”
“A fact I pointed out.” The swallow sped by, but the artist failed to notice its sharp, commanding twitter. “He swore he wasn’t so witless that he couldn’t tell the difference between a moving figure and one sitting still.”
As a youth, Bak had a few times imbibed enough to see a room revolve around him, but the artist’s next words dis-pelled his skepticism.
“The figure darted past him and down the ramp. Filled with brewed courage, Huni followed. It stayed deep in the shadow of the southern retaining wall, and so did he. Once out of the shadow, it hurried past the slope below the cliff and along the base of the platform on which the old temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep stands. He pursued it through the moonlight, fearing the whole time it would see him.”
“It stayed well clear of the workmen’s huts.”
“Yes, sir. As it always does.”
“He’s sure it didn’t know he was following?”
“He was very quiet and it never looked back, he swore.”
The artist rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “It climbed up a pile of rubble and onto the terrace of the old temple. Huni was close behind by this time. He’d regained a portion of his wits, he told me, but not the use of his feet. As he followed it up the rubble slope, he stumbled and a rock clattered behind him. The malign spirit heard.
“It turned around, spread its arms wide, curled its fingers like claws, and raced toward him. He leaped off the edge of the terrace. Fortunately, the sand below was soft and he broke no limbs. He ran toward the workmen’s huts, certain that at any instant he would die. He was nearly there when he worked up the courage to look behind him. He was alone; the specter had vanished.”
Bak could understand why the malign spirit might think Huni a threat, but he could see no reason why this man was afraid for his life, unless. . “Did Huni see the figure well enough to know it was a man and not an apparition? Did he have any idea who it was?”
Fear once again filled the artist’s eyes. “He was sure it was a man, one driven to madness by the night. He may’ve guessed its name.”
“But he didn’t tell you?”
The artist, looking miserable, shook his head. “Since his death, I’ve lived in fear that the madman will think I can point a finger at him. I swear to the lord Thoth that I can’t.”
Bak was fairly certain he was telling the truth. If not, nothing less than a god would get it from him. “When did he tell you of his adventure?”
“At first light the next morning.”
“How much time passed before his death?”
“He died late that afternoon or early in the night, so Pashed believed.”
Convinced the so-called malign spirit had slain both Dedu and Huni in fear of his identity being aired-and no doubt Montu as well-Bak decided to use the remainder of the daylight hours to explore the ruined temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep, the place where lights were so often seen in the night. Taking Hori and a none too eager Kasaya with him, he climbed the long ramp the workmen had built to remove the stone being scavenged from what had once been a large covered main court and the colonnades surrounding three of its four sides.
They crossed the broad strip of terrace that fronted the northern colonnade, the terrace from which Huni had jumped. The colonnade, an open structure whose stone roof had been supported by two rows of square columns, stood in front of the partially ruined wall that enclosed the main court. The roof was almost entirely gone, the broken slabs and architraves lying where they had fallen among damaged and overturned columns.
“How many years has this building stood?” Kasaya asked, looking at the ruined colonnade as if not quite sure
