considered his appearance amusing, men who failed to notice how serious his demeanor was. He had a short and pudgy body, a three quarter circle of curly white hair, and bushy white eyebrows.
“The floor will need to be cleaned and the walls and ceiling repainted to cover the soot, but the damage appears to be minimal.”
“The guards were quick to act. They feared the roof would catch fire and it would spread to other magazines.”
“I’ll see their swift action is rewarded. I’m convinced they averted a catastrophe.” Nebamon shuddered. “With so few men nearby to fight a conflagration, it could’ve spread all through the sacred precinct.”
Bak thought of the multitudes standing outside the enclo sure wall, watching the procession. He was certain every man among them would have come running. “You knew of
Woserhet’s task, I’ve been told.”
“User told us.” The overseer turned to leave the building, and his scribe followed.
“Did you keep a close watch on what he was doing?”
“Close enough.” Nebamon stepped up to a ladder leaning against the front of the building and placed a foot on the lowest rung. “From what I saw inside, I doubt the roof suf fered damage, but I must look nonetheless. Will you come with me, Lieutenant?”
Bak followed him upward, while the scribe remained be hind. A large flock of pigeons, caught sunning themselves in the warm glow of the lord Khepre, took flight as the men climbed onto the roof. The vaults of the long row of inter connected storage magazines formed a series of half cylin ders butted together side by side. The smooth white plaster surface was mottled by bird droppings, and windblown dirt and sand filled the depressions between the ridges.
“You followed his progress from one storage magazine to another?” Bak asked.
“As long as he was examining this storage block, yes.”
Nebamon knelt on the ridge at a spot Bak judged to be di rectly above the area where the fire had been the hottest. The overseer drew a knife from the sheath at his belt and began to dig a hole in the plaster and the mudbrick beneath. “He finished with us over a week ago, apparently satisfied, and went on to another block. I was surprised to hear he’d come back. What was he doing here, Lieutenant? Do you know?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
The overseer gave him a startled look. “Are you saying he told no one?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“It never pays to be too secretive. Never.”
Shaking his head to reinforce the thought, Nebamon dug deeper. He studied the hole as he excavated, searching for signs that the fire had crept through the straw mixed into the mud when the bricks were made. “You know, of course, that these storehouses are filled with valuables. Not merely ritual vessels but cult statues, amulets carved or molded of pre cious stones and metals, aromatic oils, incense, objects brought from far-off lands to adorn the god, the sacred shrine, the sacred barque.”
“Meryamon mentioned only objects used in the rituals.
Does he know of the other items?”
“He should. He comes here daily.”
Kneeling beside the overseer, Bak picked up a small chunk dug from the rooftop and crumbled it with his fingers.
The straw was brittle and dry but unburned. The dried mud was brown, not the red of burned brick. “Would he have an opportunity to steal?”
Nebamon’s eyes narrowed. “Meryamon? What gave you that idea?”
“I’m asking, that’s all.”
“I suppose he could steal an item or two, but why would he? He has a position few men attain at such a young age. A man would have to’ve lost his wits to risk so much.” The overseer moved to the hollow between the ridges and again dropped to his knees. “If anything had been missing, I’m confident Woserhet would’ve discovered the loss. He and his servants were very thorough. I watched them. They counted every object.”
“You respected him, I see.”
“He could be irksome at times.” Nebamon, brushing the sand from the hollow, looked up and smiled. “As are all au ditors.” Sobering, he said. “He had a task to do and he did it well. He was slow and careful and precise, as wary of mak ing a wrong accusation as he was of overlooking an offense against the lord Amon. I can’t fault him for that, now can I?”
“I’ve heard he wasn’t well liked.”
“I suppose a few men resented him, feeling he was prying-and he was. But we’re all men of experience. He’s not the first auditor we’ve met, nor will he be the last.”
Bak appreciated the overseer’s attitude, a man who ac cepted the bad with the good, making no special fuss. “What can you tell me of Meryamon?”
“We’re back to him, uh?” Nebamon grinned at Bak, then began to dig another hole. “He seems a likable enough young man.”
“I seek something more specific,” Bak said, returning the smile. “Where, for example, did he come from?”
“Somewhere to the north. Gebtu? Abedju? Ipu? That gen eral area.”
Some distance away, several days’ journey at best. No easy way of narrowing that down without asking Meryamon himself. “His task requires a man of trust and dependability.
To attain such a post, he must’ve come from a family of posi tion and wealth. Or some man of influence befriended him.”
Nebamon took a cloth from his belt and wiped the sweat from his face. “I’ve heard a provincial governor spoke up for him, but who that worthy man was, I don’t recall. If ever I was told his name.”
Vowing to dig deeper into Meryamon’s past, Bak watched the pigeons circle around and settle on the far side of the roof, their soft cooing carrying on the air. “I saw you two days ago after the procession entered Ipet-resyt, watching a troupe of Hittite acrobats. Standing beside you was a red haired man.” He disliked deceiving so likable and industri ous an individual, but the ploy had satisfied Meryamon, so why not use it again? “Many years ago, I knew someone who looked very much like him, but I don’t recall his name.
I wonder if he could be the man I knew?”
The overseer looked up from his small excavation. “I talked to dozens of people that day: friends, acquaintances, strangers.” He broke apart a lump of dried mud and studied the straw embedded inside. Nodding his satisfaction, he rose to his feet. “The roof appears undamaged. I’ll send a man up here to fill the holes and replaster, and it’ll be as good as new.”
As they walked together to the ladder, Bak asked, “Do you by chance remember the redhead? If I bump into him during the festival, I’d like to be able to call him by name.”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about. How can I recall one of so many?”
Was he telling the truth? Bak liked the overseer and thought him honest-at least he hoped he was. However, he could not deceive himself. As overseer of the storage block,
Nebamon had unrestrained access and was less likely to be watched closely by those in attendance than was Merya mon. Also, he was responsible not only for storing the items, but for receiving them from far and wide and distrib uting them elsewhere. To where? Bak wondered. Amonked had not explained.
Bak left the lovely limestone court in front of Ipet-isut and walked south to the partially completed gate. The sun struck pavement was so hot he could feel the warmth through the soles of his sandals. Striding through the gate, he paused at the low end of the construction ramps and looked south along the processional way toward the first barque sanctuary. There, just two days earlier, he had stood with his men, awaiting their dual sovereigns and the sacred triad.
The unfinished gate towers stood sadly neglected, the workmen released to enjoy the festival. A dozen boys, none more than ten years of age, were towing a large empty sledge up the ramp built against the east tower. One shouted out commands, pretending to be an overseer slapping his thigh with a stick, a make-believe baton of authority. The rest struggled mightily to pull the heavy vehicle. What they meant to do with the sledge when they reached the top, Bak dared not imagine.
On an impulse, he decided to climb the west ramp, bare and unoccupied except for a sledge laden with facing
