Bak walked around the small vessel, pleased with what he saw. Most of the men and women who summoned his father with ailments or injuries dwelt on the west bank of the river within easy walking distance of his home, but six or eight times a week he was called to aid someone who lived across the river in Waset or far enough north or south to make sailing a necessity.
He thanked the lord Amon that Menna no longer resented his help. The officer had actually expressed appreciation when he had come with his tale of the nighttime intruders in the old temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. If this skiff proved to be acceptable, their friendship would be sealed.
“What could your intruders have been doing there?”
Menna asked. “Searching for a tomb to rob? Robbing one they’d already located?”
Bak spread his hands wide and shrugged. “We found no sign of an open sepulcher-or any other tomb, for that matter-and we searched that temple from one end to the other.”
“It seems a likely source of the jewelry you confiscated at Buhen. The objects are of a style from that period and once adorned a woman of royal blood. But surely you’d have found some sign of digging or a similar disturbance.”
“Where are the other kings of that period buried?” Bak asked, aware that there was a slight chance the jewelry had been taken from an earlier or later king’s tomb.
“Most were laid to rest in a cemetery at the north end of western Waset. We may not know of them all, but of those we do, their burial places were robbed and desecrated many generations ago.”
No surprise there. Bak studied the skiff, which was half lying on its side, with much of its keelless hull visible. The bare wood glowed with oil painstakingly rubbed in. A bou-quet of flowers with intertwined stems had been painted on its prow. He thought his father would like it.
“Tell me again what the men looked like,” Menna said.
“The one I saw was slightly taller than I am and heavier.
His face was broad, his hair short, his voice deep and grating, although the harshness may’ve been because he was angry.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Do you think they were deliberately trying to slay you?”
“I thought so at the time, but when we went down into the old robbers’ shaft, I wasn’t so sure. It’s not very deep.” Bak walked to the stern and knelt beside the rudder. Cool rivulets of water splashed against his heels. “Of course, they may not have known its depth. They may never have gone inside.”
“I doubt tomb robbers would turn their backs on the promise of wealth,” Menna chided, “especially the vast amount likely to be found in the sepulcher of a king.”
Bak smiled, accepting the teasing for what it was: good-natured and well meant. “Pashed assured me that every workman at Djeser Djeseru knows how dangerous it would be to dig deeper. If they know, you can be sure everyone who dwells along the west bank knows.”
“I’ve been told,” Menna admitted. “More than once.”
“I’d not like to dig down there.” Bak walked around to look into the open hull, to examine the crossbeams. “Perenefer knows the tunnel well, and I could see the relief on his face when he came out. He was truly afraid.”
“The sail’s practically new and so are the lines.” Menna pointed to the tightly furled white canvas and to various places where the ropes usually wore out first, demonstrating how free of wear they were. “If your intruders were indeed tomb robbers, perhaps they were involved with Montu.
Maybe he kept the source of his spoils a secret, and now that he’s dead, they’re searching for it.”
“Have you unearthed anything new to indicate he was the man you’ve been seeking?”
“I haven’t,” Menna admitted ruefully. “I made the mistake of telling mistress Mutnefret what I sought and why. She’s adamant that he wasn’t a tomb robber and refuses to cooper-ate in any way. Each time I go to their dwelling, she watches me as if I were a mouse and she a falcon ready to swoop down and eat me.”
Bak flashed a sympathetic smile. “There goes your chance to pay court to Sitre.”
“I fear you’re right,” Menna said unhappily.
“I hope the woman’s annoyance with you doesn’t extend to me. I mean to go today to her country estate in western Waset. If she’s there, I want no confrontation.” Bak reached inside the boat and pulled out the oars, which were not new but showed few signs of wear. “I think that a good place to begin my search for the men we disturbed last night.”
“So you’re coming around to my way of thinking, eh?”
“That Montu was a tomb robber? I’m not entirely convinced, no, nor will I be without further proof, but I’d be re-miss if I didn’t look there for last night’s intruders.”
“I wish you luck,” Menna said fervently. “I’d like to clear this problem away once and for all. Each time a new piece of jewelry surfaces, I feel like a man having a nightmare that occurs again and again and again.”
“One day you’ll lay hands on the thief-or find proof that Montu was rifling the old tombs.” Bak clapped the officer on the shoulder. “Now tell me of the owner of this skiff. My father must see it, of course, but it looks to be exactly what he needs.”
“Montu was a lot of things, Lieutenant, not all of them appealing, but he was not a man who would steal from the dead.” Mutnefret stood in the courtyard of her country house. Her greeting had been neither warm nor cool. Impatient, rather, typical of a woman distracted from a busy day.
Six women sat before tall vertical looms protected from the sun by a heavy linen awning. A seventh loom stood idle, testifying to the task Bak had interrupted when he had asked to speak with the mistress of the house. Doors leading into the dwelling, which was of considerable size, opened off all four sides of the court. Mutnefret seemed not to care what her servants heard.
The shuttles whispered softly as they shot back and forth, creating fabric of exceptional quality. Fabric to be traded, he felt sure, rather than used within the household. An additional source of income. No wonder the estate appeared so prosperous.
“Your daughter must’ve told you of the neck of a broken jar I found in his place of work.”
“The honey jar. Yes.” She put her hands on her ample hips and scowled at him. “He could’ve picked that up anywhere.”
“All the other shards in the basket in which I found it came from Djeser Djeseru.”
“There!” She flashed a triumphant look. “You see? You’ve proven my point.”
Bak gave her a genial smile. “As I told Lieutenant Menna earlier today, I’m not as convinced as he that your husband was robbing the old tombs.”
Mention of the guard officer’s name brought the frown back. “How convenient for him if he could lay blame on a dead man!”
He ignored the sarcasm. “I’ll need more proof than a broken bit of pottery before I blacken Montu’s name-or that of anyone else. Nevertheless, I must see the men who toil on this estate.”
The shuttles grew silent; the servants turned around to stare, their hostility clear. Their husbands, brothers, and sons would be among the men he had asked to see.
Mutnefret flung her chin high, cool and haughty. “I can assure you, Lieutenant, that my servants spent the whole of the night sleeping peacefully with their wives and families.”
The servants muttered a resentful agreement.
“You must see that I can’t accept your word for their whereabouts. Were you not in this house, in your own bedchamber, while they slept elsewhere?”
“I didn’t see them with my own eyes, I must admit, but the women you see here. .”
“Devoted mothers and wives and sisters, women who would say what they must to protect those dear to them.” He softened his voice. “If I don’t see a familiar face, you’ll be done with me.”
She had no choice but to acquiesce, and she knew it. “Oh, very well.”
To be certain he missed no one, he asked, “Have any of your servants moved away since your husband’s death?”
She flung her head high. “None have left, nor will they.
They toiled on this estate for my first husband and for his father before him. This is their home, Lieutenant, and so it should be.”
