with a pendant bee. Did it mean nothing to you?”
“Not a thing.”
The response was not one that welcomed a suggestion, but Bak went on anyway. “Do you know of a beekeeper who labels his honey in that manner? He could’ve slipped the jewelry into the jar or, if the jar was reused later, he might know who used it after he did.”
Menna shrugged. “I’ve never seen such a drawing, nor do I know of any man who uses a like symbol.”
“According to the man I snared in Buhen, the sketch was placed on the jar so both he and the recipient would know exactly which container was of special value. Some such 32
Lauren Haney
method of identification would be needed if he and his fellows were simple couriers, as he claimed, with no knowledge of what was hidden inside. Have any inspectors noticed such a drawing?”
He had Menna’s full attention now. “Not to my knowledge, but it’s worthy of discussing with the harbormaster.
I’ll do so today.” He stood up, preparing to leave. “In fact, I’ll speak with him this morning, before I cross the river to western Waset. I appreciate the suggestion, Lieutenant, and I commend you for being so astute.”
Bak watched him hurry away, suspecting that condescen-sion lurked within that final bit of praise. At least Menna had been sufficiently impressed to follow a new course that might bear fruit.
If only their roles were reversed. If only he, Bak, could investigate the tomb robberies and Menna look into the construction accidents. Like the guard officer had said, superstition gave birth to mishaps, and Bak very much feared such was the case at Djeser Djeseru.
Then again, an inordinately large number of accidents had occurred.
Chapter Three
“Two senior architects are responsible for the project: Pashed and Montu.” Amonked hastened up the wide causeway, setting a pace few men could maintain for long.
The four porters bearing the carrying chair he had spurned hurried along behind. Bak had spotted them more than once wiping their brows in an exaggerated manner and exchanging glances of mock exhaustion, and not because of the midday heat. They were registering a good-natured acceptance of their master’s refusal to ride. An idiosyncrasy among those who walked the corridors of power.
“Two very different men,” Amonked went on. “Pashed is sensible and reliable, as firm as a rock. Montu is as slippery as the snake you’d find under that rock. Both are equally competent in their tasks, and both should be credited for all you’ll see before you today.”
Surprised, Bak asked, “Is not Senenmut, our sovereign’s favorite, the architect responsible for Djeser Djeseru?” The instant Bak uttered the word “favorite,” he regretted the slip.
It was common usage among ordinary people when speaking of Senenmut, but he doubted it was aired above a whisper by denizens of the royal house. Too disrespectful by far.
Looking amused, Amonked said, “He has overall charge, yes, but the project is large and he has a multitude of other important and time-consuming duties.”
“Thus you’ve been given the task of relieving his burden.”
“So it would seem.”
“I see.” Bak knew he should let the matter drop, but a twinkle in his companion’s eye prompted him to go on. “I’ve heard many times that he alone created the unique design of Djeser Djeseru. Is that not true?”
Amonked’s laugh hinted at cynicism. “The ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep lies beside that of Maatkare Hatshepsut. You can look down upon it from my cousin’s new structure. After you’ve seen it, I’ll tell you of Senenmut’s initial plan for Djeser Djeseru.”
Bak looked up the long, sloping causeway toward the distant construction site. The broad smooth path allowed materials and equipment to be hauled from a canal at its lower end to the upper reaches of the valley floor, an undulating landscape of golden sand nestled within a natural bay, a curving sweep of high cliffs with tower-like projections of varying height cut from the face by erosion. When building the causeway, sandy mounds and rock protuberances had been leveled and the low ground filled to make the ascent smooth and straight, the grade easy. Later, a small temple would be built at the lower end and the path would be paved and walled. Stone lions with the faces of Maatkare Hatshepsut would line either side of the walkway.
From so low a perspective, he could see only a portion of the temple at the far end of the valley, where the cliff reached its highest point. A lower terrace, divided at the center by a ramp, was partially lined with pale limestone columns. A second, higher terrace had about half the columns in place at either end. The structure was being built along the base of a steep slope of rock fallen from the soaring cliffs that formed a golden brown backdrop. Bak was impressed. The setting could not have been more spectacular-or more befitting a mighty sovereign of the land of Kemet.
To the south and on lower ground, broken columns and a tumbled mound of stone stood atop a sandswept terrace, the ancient ruined temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. Bak had
played among those columns as a child, brought into the valley by his father’s housekeeper, who had come sometimes to bend a knee at a shrine to the lady Hathor. The valley had been quiet during that long ago time, a place of adoration. If the rising dust ahead told a true tale, he would find no peace and tranquillity now.
“Does Senenmut come here often?”
“As I said before, my young friend, he’s a busy man.”
Amonked’s mouth twitched. “A very busy man.”
Bak, letting out a long, slow breath of relief, barely noticed the humor. Senenmut was no more a friend of his than was Maatkare Hatshepsut.
“As you can see, the sanctuary is nearly complete.”
The senior architect, Pashed, stood aside so Bak could look the length of the long, narrow chamber that had been dug into the hillside. The enclosed space smelled of the four men inside, sweating in the heat, toiling in sunlight reflected from outside by means of a mirror. They barely glanced at the newcomer. They were too preoccupied with adding color to the shallow reliefs that adorned the walls, images of Maatkare Hatshepsut making offerings to various deities.
Bak did not tarry. He would have plenty of time to see details later.
“The same may be said of the memorial chapels to our sovereign and her father,” Pashed said, hurrying on with his admittedly perfunctory tour of the construction site. He was a short, slight man of forty or so years whose brow was stamped by the deep wrinkles of an individual perpetually harried by life.
“Where’s Montu?” Amonked asked. “I want Lieutenant Bak to meet him.”
The architect slipped around a ramp of rubble at the end of an unfinished segment of portico, which when finished would surround the open court at the heart of the temple.
Several architraves and roofing slabs lay at the foot of the ramp, waiting to be positioned atop twin rows of sixteen-sided columns. About half the portico was complete. Large limestone drums that would be stacked to form additional columns were scattered around the open floor in the center.
Wall niches to either side of the sanctuary door stood empty, awaiting the placement of statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut.
The work lay dormant, with not a man in sight. Bak could not understand the lack of activity.
Pashed’s voice grew taut, censorious. “I haven’t seen him today.”
“I spoke to him last week.” Amonked made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Apparently my warning did no good.”
Bak glanced at the two men. Anger and discontent were far more likely causes of accidents than malign spirits, and Amonked wanted him to meet Montu. Did he suspect the missing architect of disrupting the work, not with intent, but out of neglect?
Mouth clamped tight, Pashed stalked through an open portal on the south side of the courtyard. Bak found himself in an as yet unadorned anteroom off which two doorways opened. A pair of carefully placed mirrors caught the sunlight reflected from a mirror outside and sent it into two inner rooms.
