Chapter Six
“Were you aware that Woserhet was an auditor?” Bak dropped onto the single free stool in the workshop, a rough cut rectangular affair made for straddling.
“Yes, sir.” On the floor beside his leg, Meryamon laid the long, delicate censer, shaped like an arm with an open hand at the end, that he had been inspecting. Newly polished, the gold it was made from glistened in the light like the flesh of the lord Re.
“Why didn’t you say?”
Meryamon flushed, then glanced surreptitiously at the half-dozen men scattered along the lean-to that shaded two sides of the open court. A warm breeze rustled the palm fronds spread atop the shelter. Surrounded by ritual imple ments, they were cleaning and buffing bronze and gold and precious inlays for use during this and the eight remaining days of the Opet festival. Unseen craftsmen in another part of the building could be heard hammering metal. The young priest sat cross-legged on a reed mat, surrounded by objects given him for inspection. Many were outstanding examples of the metalsmith’s craft.
“I guess I was too surprised to hear he’d been given the re sponsibility for the reversion of offerings. I had no idea he was so highly thought of.”
“Were you not told that he reported to no less a man than the chief priest?”
“I knew Hapuseneb sent him, but I thought the audit rou tine.”
Had it been routine? Bak did not know. Nor had Ptahmes been able to tell him. The aide had assumed so, at least at the beginning, but when Bak had found him in the house of life not an hour ago, before the long arm of the lord Khepre could reach into the sacred precinct, he had said, “Ha puseneb is a wily old bird; he may’ve sensed a transgression within the storehouses and brought Woserhet here without telling even him of his suspicions.”
Unfortunately, Woserhet had repeated the same mistake with his scribe Tati, telling him nothing, letting him search with his eyes blinded by lack of knowledge.
Irked at the thought, Bak asked Meryamon, “How often did you have occasion to speak with him?”
The priest shrugged. “Two or three times at most. A greet ing usually and not much else.”
“What was your impression of him?”
Another shrug, and the closed expression of a man un willing to commit himself.
Sighing inwardly, Bak wiped a film of sweat from his forehead. “Surely you thought something about him.”
The priest studied his foot, refusing to meet Bak’s eyes.
“The sacred precinct is like a village, sir. People talk and you can’t help listening. Listening and being influenced.”
Bak felt as if he were pulling an arrow driven deep within a wooden target. The man would offer nothing without it be ing dragged from him. “From what you heard, Meryamon, what did you conclude about him?”
“They said he was a plodder, a man who searched out mi nor errors like a bee eater seeks a hive, and he wouldn’t let rest the least significant matter until someone wasted the time it took to resolve the problem.”
“Is that what you saw the few times you spoke with him?”
The priest’s eyes darted toward Bak and away. A reddish stain washed up his face. “I thought it best to have as little to do with him as possible.”
Bak muttered an oath beneath his breath. Meryamon had no spine whatsoever-or so he appeared. He had managed to convince someone in authority that he was responsible enough to see that the priests were provided with the proper supplies and equipment for the various rituals. A demanding task he must be performing well or he would not be here.
Bak picked up a tall, thin, spouted libation jar. Made of gold and polished to a high sheen, it surpassed in beauty all the other objects scattered around the priest. “This was kept in the storehouse where Woserhet was found?”
Meryamon eyed the jar as if he feared the officer would drop it, marring its perfection. “Behind the records room, yes.”
“So if the building had burned, this and all the other ritual objects except those being used in the procession would’ve burned with it.” Thanking the lord Amon that such had not been the case, Bak returned the jar to the spot from which he had taken it. Such a loss would have been an abomination.
“All that remained inside would’ve been destroyed, yes, but these were safe. As is the custom, I’d gone to the store house the day before and removed everything the priests will use throughout the festival.” Meryamon gestured toward the men toiling beneath the lean-to. “The ritual implements will be used time and time again until the lord Amon returns to his northern mansion. They’re cleaned after each use.”
Bak looked at the men and the precious objects scattered around them. Many had been crafted of gold, a few of the much rarer metal silver, others of bronze or faience or glass. Each a work of art. Objects considered by User to be of insignificant value when compared to those stored in the treasury.
“Where do you keep them when they’re not in the store house?”
“Here. In this building. It’s safer than carrying them back and forth.” Meryamon smiled. “Never fear, sir. They’re well cared for.”
A short, fleshy servant seated beneath the lean-to spat out an oath and scrambled to his feet, swatting at something too small to see, a flying insect of some kind. His fellows laughed-until the tiny assailant moved on to fly around their heads. Spitting curses, a few men waved the creature off while the remainder covered their heads with their arms.
Finally, an older, thinner man slapped the back of his neck and chortled success. Laughing at themselves, the men re turned to their task.
Bak stood up, prepared to leave. As if an afterthought, he said, “Oh yes, I meant to ask you. The day the lord Amon traveled to Ipet-resyt, I saw you walking south along the processional way. You were with a red-haired man. I thought to join you, but lost you in the crowd. I once knew a man of similar appearance, but don’t remember his name. I wonder if your friend is the one I knew.”
A frown so slight Bak almost missed it touched Merya mon’s face; he paused an instant to think. His eyes met
Bak’s and he spoke with the candor of an honest man. “I may’ve talked with such an individual, but I don’t recall do ing so.”
Bak left the workshop, convinced Meryamon had lied.
Why tell a falsehood over a trivial matter? Or was it trivial?
What message had the shard contained? Had it in some way related to Woserhet’s death?
He thought of the beautiful and valuable objects he had seen in the workshop. User might not believe them worthy of stealing, but to him-and no doubt to Meryamon as well-they were of greater value than anything he could hope to attain in a lifetime. Even when melted down and im possible to identify, as the objects would have to be in order to be disposed of in the land of Kemet, their value would be awesome.
Another telling fact to Bak’s way of thinking: Meryamon had been the first man at the scene of the murder. He had raised the alarm in plenty of time to save the storage maga zine and the valuable objects that had remained within, but had not summoned help until after many of the scrolls strewn around the body had burned. If he had been stealing from the storehouse, he would certainly know which docu ments might incriminate him.
“I didn’t hear of Woserhet’s death until yesterday morn ing.” Nebamon, overseer of the block of storehouses in which Woserhet had died, glared blame at the elderly scribe at his side. “Before I could come to Ipet-isut to look into the matter, one of the scribal overseers at Ipet-resyt fell ill and I was pressed into taking his place. There went the day.”
Bak broke the seal and swung open the door of the small room where Woserhet had been slain. “Stay near the en trance. I’m not satisfied I’ve learned all I can from this place.”
The overseer grunted acknowledgment and stepped across the threshold. His scribe followed, holding aloft a flaming short-handled torch to illuminate as much of the room as possible. Bak remained outside but watched them closely to be sure they disturbed nothing.
“Hmmm.” In the wavering light of the torch, Nebamon studied the chamber. Some men might have
