“I’ve but to remind her of your skills as a hunter of men.
Can she turn you away? I think not.”
Bak took a sip of wine, one of the best vintages he had tasted in a long time. He was not entirely satisfied with the promise. He trusted Amonked, but he doubted even the Storekeeper of Amon, as close a relative as he was, could stand up to the most powerful sovereign in the world when she sent her heart down a specific path, as she had when she had exiled Bak. Yet how could he refuse? “Exactly how many men have been hurt or slain?” Maybe the number of accidents was no greater at Djeser Djeseru than anywhere else.
“Thirteen have died: two foremen, nine ordinary workmen, a scribe, and a guard. Seven have been seriously injured, never to return to their tasks at the temple. That number includes my scribe Thaneny, whom you knew in Wawat.”
“I remember him well, sir.” A good man, Bak recalled, one whose mutilated and stiffened leg had testified to the seriousness of the accident that had nearly taken his life.
“Several more men have been badly hurt,” Amonked said,
“but none so disabled they couldn’t go on to other, less demanding tasks. Of course, there’ve been innumerable lesser accidents, three or four a month, I’d guess.”
Bak had to admit the numbers seemed excessive. He had nothing to compare them to, but if he were responsible for a task with so many dead and injured, he, too, would be concerned. “What do the workmen say about the mishaps?”
Amonked screwed up his face in distaste. “They blame a malign spirit.”
No surprise there, Bak thought. Men of no learning were superstitious, finding it easier to blame misfortune on the mysterious rather than other men or the gods. “Have tools turned up missing? Have the men been paid in short measure? Has the quality of workmanship been wanting?”
“Is corruption a concern, you mean?” Amonked shook his head. “I’ve scribes who go through the scrolls each time I receive a report. They check every inventory that pertains to the project, searching for theft of property or equipment, and they conduct their own random inventories. They look into tales of bad morale, quarrels between men, reports of personal theft, and all the other minor crimes that befall a project so large. They’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You trust them.”
“I’d place my life and my honor in their hands.”
Bak did not doubt Amonked’s judgment of his scribes, but honest men ofttimes missed the rotten core hidden within the fruits of men’s labors. “I’ll walk the same path for a short distance lest they’ve missed something. Other than that, you’ve not left me much to work with.” His smile was wry, containing a minimum of humor. “Nothing but a malign spirit.”
A rotund man with a black mole on his chin walked under the portico. He spoke briefly with the chief scribe, who ushered him to Amonked and introduced him as the captain of the ship that had just arrived. They spoke of the cargo, mostly wheat and barley, and of other matters related to the shipment. Listening with half an ear, Bak watched the crew of the vessel prepare to unload and the foot traffic on the busy street, which gave access to the numerous warehouses within Amonked’s domain. A flock of chattering sparrows darted among the passing feet, snatching grain that had spilled from a bag earlier in the day.
He spotted Huy coming toward the warehouse at a fast pace and with him a tall, well-formed man who carried a baton of office. The guard officer investigating the tomb robberies, Bak assumed.
Amonked bade good-bye to the ship’s captain, waited for the pair to draw near, and introduced Bak to the newly arrived officer. Lieutenant Menna, as he had guessed.
“You two should get on well together,” Amonked told Menna. “Lieutenant Bak has stood at the head of a company of Medjays at the fortress of Buhen for over two years. He’s a most talented investigator.” Pointing to a portable stool Huy drew close, he added, “I’ve told him of your own knowledge.”
While Menna sampled the wine and fruit, Bak studied him surreptitiously. He was a man of thirty or so years, freshly oiled and smelling of a scent he had used after bathing. His kilt was the whitest of whites, his broad beaded collar and bracelets gleamed. His belt buckle, the grip of his dagger, and his baton of office glistened. Bak doubted he had ever met a man so careful of his person. He wondered how he looked after tramping through the sandswept cemeteries of western Waset for hours on end.
Amonked handed Menna the precious objects lying in the square of cloth. “Lieutenant Bak found this jewelry on a cargo ship moored at Buhen. If not for him, these pieces would now be adorning the wife of some minor Kushite king.”
After looking closely at each object, Menna tapped with a finger the name within the ring of protection. “I’ll wager these came from the same tomb as the cowrie necklace and girdle the inspector found on a ship moored in Mennufer two months ago.”
“I’d not be surprised.” Amonked’s voice hardened. “This abomination must stop, Lieutenant. You must find that tomb.
That and the others being rifled. Of greater import, you must snare the man responsible.”
Menna flung a quick glance at Bak, obviously unhappy at having a witness to what amounted to a reprimand, and looked back at Amonked. “As you well know, sir, my men and I have thoroughly examined the cemeteries in western Waset. More than once. We’ve found nothing amiss. I’m beginning to think the tombs that have been robbed are elsewhere. Near Mennufer possibly, where the majority of the jewelry has been found.”
Amonked scowled. “Next you’ll be telling me Nebhepetre Montuhotep buried his loved ones at Buhen.”
Menna flushed. “No, sir.”
“That worthy king was entombed here, as were his successors. You can’t seriously believe his consort or daughter would be set to rest far away from the man who lifted the one above all others and gave the other her life.”
“If a princess, she may have wed a man who took her. .”
Menna must have realized how useless it was to press against an immovable wall. His argument foundered. None too eagerly, he said, “All right, sir. We’ll go over the same ground again. And again and again if we must.”
“So be it.” Amonked turned to Bak. “I wish you to repeat to Lieutenant Menna all you’ve told me about finding these precious objects.”
“Yes, sir,” Bak said, and went on to do so.
When he admitted he had gotten nothing of value from Nenwaf, Menna said, “So you know no more than I do.”
Having made no claim to superior knowledge, Bak was irritated. “Far less, I’d wager. I’ve not known of the rifled tombs as long as you have, Lieutenant, nor have I been in a position to walk through the cemeteries day after day.”
“Would you like to assist me in my task? There are hundreds of tombs in western Waset, and we could use another man.”
The officer’s voice was level, carrying no hint of rancor, but Bak was left with a feeling that the suggestion was barbed. Either Menna was still nettled because he had witnessed his censure or, in spite of Amonked’s warm introduc-tion, Menna saw this newcomer from the southern frontier as unworldly and unaccomplished. One who knew nothing of locating and snaring those who offended the lady Maat, one who could walk by the open mouth of a sunken tomb and fail to notice. Bak resented the notion, not uncommon among officers who had never been posted outside the capital.
Amonked eyed Menna, his face revealing none of his thoughts, a mask Bak had come to know well in Wawat.
“Lieutenant Bak will be spending a great deal of time in western Waset, but he’ll have no time to aid you. I’ve asked him to seek out the source of the many accidents at Djeser Djeseru.”
Menna gave Bak a surprised look, smiled. “I wish you luck. From what I hear, you’ll be tracking most elusive game.”
“I’m not a superstitious man, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not implying you are. I’m merely saying that superstition breeds accidents.”
“Perhaps,” Bak said, refusing to give Menna the satisfaction of argument or agreement. “You made no comment when I mentioned the drawing around the neck of the jar in which the jewelry was hidden, a necklace
