to a place where he could watch, making sure she did no harm to herself, and sat down to wait.
After what seemed to him an eternity and no doubt longer to a child, the youngest of the three, a girl less than two years of age, began to whimper. The oldest, a boy of no more than four years, looked hopefully at his mother. When she failed to notice, he went to the little girl, put his arms around her, and tried to soothe her. Left alone, the middle child, another boy, hurried to his mother and prodded her, trying to attract her attention.
She lifted her face from her hands, saw the youngsters’ unhappiness and confusion. Gathering her courage, she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and spoke to them in a soft and comforting voice. Not until they returned to their play did she give a long, ragged sigh and look at
Bak. Rising from the floor, she plucked two beer jars from a basket, broke the plugs from both, and entered the room in which he sat.
“Who slew my husband?” she asked.
“We don’t yet know.” Bak saw anger forming, a substitute for sorrow. “I made a vow to Amonked, the Storekeeper of
Amon, that I’d snare the vile criminal-and I will.”
She handed a jar to him and sat on the platform. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. Her expression grew hard and determined. “Woserhet was a good man, Lieutenant, a good father to our children. Whoever took his life must be made to pay with his own life.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve wished him dead?”
“I told you, he was a good man. He had no enemies.”
Bak took a sip of beer, which was milder and smoother than most kitchen brews. The woman erred, thinking her husband had no foes. Woserhet’s death had been no acci dent. “I’ve been told he reported directly to the chief priest.
Can you tell me what his duties were?”
“He seldom spoke of his task. Each time he did, he had me vow that I’d not repeat his words. You must ask Hapuseneb.”
“Hapuseneb is presently walking to Ipet-resyt in today’s procession. He’ll be leading rituals of one kind or another for the remainder of the day and for ten days more. As much as I’d like to speak with him, I can’t.”
She stared at her fingers, wound tightly around the beer jar.
“If I’m to find Woserhet’s slayer, I must begin without de lay. Not in eleven days’ time.”
“I promised…”
He leaned toward her, willing her to help. “Mistress
Ashayet, your husband was responsible for the reversion of offerings for the Beautiful Feast of Opet. To be given so im portant a task, to dole out foodstuffs for such a momentous occasion, he must’ve held some position of responsibility.”
The silence stretched, then suddenly, “He was an auditor.”
“An auditor?” he echoed.
She nodded. “Hapuseneb, the chief priest, sent him to the lord Amon’s storehouses here and throughout the land of
Kemet. He gave him a scribe and four other men, all ser vants indentured to the god. His task and that of Tati, the scribe, was to make sure the records matched the stored items. The other four lifted and fetched, ran errands and, when the need arose, saw that no one impeded them while they went about their task.”
Bak whistled softly. “A heavy responsibility.” A task where a man might well make enemies.
“Yes, sir.” She spoke so softly he could barely hear.
“His most recent audits have been conducted here, I gather, in the southern capital.”
She nodded. “He’s been in Waset for about a month. We were so happy to have him home.” She swallowed hard, flashed a smile much too animated to be real.
“Had his behavior changed recently in any way? As if he might’ve quarreled with a priest or scribe who resented his intrusion? Or as if he’d come upon a dishonesty?”
“He’s been troubled for the past few days, yes.” She could not help but see the expectancy leaping into his heart. “He wouldn’t speak of it, but he was distracted much of the time.
When I tried to draw him out, he grew irritable. Impatient with the children. Quarrelsome even. He wasn’t like that usually.” She bit her lip, her voice trembled. “He was a good, kind man, Lieutenant. Decent. Who would want to slay him?”
Bak knew he must soon leave, allowing her the privacy to mourn. “Did he ever bring home any records?”
“No, sir.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She hastily wiped them away and glanced around the room. “As you can see, we have little enough space. To add anything more would’ve made us too crowded by far.”
“Where would he have kept them?”
“The chief priest assigned him a small building not far from the mansion of the lord Amon, somewhere outside the walls of the sacred precinct. Hapuseneb wished to separate him and his servants from all who might wish to influence them.
Ptahmes, Hapuseneb’s aide, can tell you how to find it.”
“They’ve all gone, sir.” The guard, a man of advanced years with a huge mane of white hair, looked at Bak as at a man befuddled. His task was to watch over the spacious building, built around the open courtyard in which they stood, where the chief priest and his staff carried out their administrative duties. “Surely you know that not a man within the sacred precinct would miss the procession if he didn’t have to.”
“I know that a large number of priests escort the lord
Amon to his southern mansion,” Bak said, smothering his ir ritation, “and I’m also aware that many men must stand well behind them, making sure they’re properly cleansed, clothed, and equipped. I assume much of the preparation is done here, after which they’re free to go.”
“I fear, Lieutenant, that you suffer from the common illu sion that priests are an idle lot. Most toil from dawn till dusk, their tasks never ending.”
The old man was so haughty Bak wondered if he had been a priest. “What of Ptahmes? Is he equally industrious or might I find him watching the procession?”
The guard pursed his lips in disapproval. “He certainly can’t speak with you today. He’s at Ipet-resyt, preparing for the lord Amon’s arrival and the rituals that will be conducted through the next ten days.”
Bak gave up. With no one available to help, he had no choice but to forget the dead man for the remainder of the day and give himself over to the festivities.
Bak stood on the processional way in front of the barque sanctuary where last he had seen his Medjays. As expected, the structure was empty, his men gone. Gods and royalty had long ago marched on, accompanied by the priests and digni taries, the dancers and acrobats and singers. The spectators had drifted away, many following their sovereigns and gods to Ipet-resyt. Those few satisfied they had seen enough were making their way home, while a large number had gone off in search of beer and a good time. The booths had been dis mantled to be carried farther along the route and set up again. The soldiers had broken ranks to join the rest in what ever endeavor most appealed to them.
He had forgotten how utterly deserted the processional way could be after everyone moved on. Sparrows twittered undisturbed in a sycamore whose limbs brushed the sanctu ary. Leaves rustled along the crushed limestone path, blown by the desultory breeze. Crows marched across trampled grasses and weeds, searching for bits of food dropped and forgotten. A dog gnawing a bone growled each time one of the large black and gray birds came close, threatening to steal his prize.
Bak glanced at the lord Re, already three-quarters of the way across the vault of heaven. No wonder he was hungry.
The food vendors would, by this time, have all moved to the far end of the processional way, near Ipet-resyt. More than a quarter hour’s fast walk.
He hastened southward. At first he had the path to him self, but the farther he strode, the more people he came upon. Many walked toward Ipet-resyt, while a few strode in the opposite direction. Some in a rush and others ambling along as if they had all the time in the world. People alone or in groups, chatting and laughing. Persons with the seri ous demeanors of the awe-struck or devout. Revelers who had watched the sacred barques and their sovereigns pass by and now saw fit to make merry. The few remaining po lice and soldiers turned a blind eye to all but the worst of fenses.
