“I can easily see a connection between Woserhet’s death and that of Meryamon. Each man toiled for the lord Amon and dealt daily with the valuable objects in his storage mag azines. But what of the Hittite?”
“I have no idea,” Bak admitted. “Importing horses for the royal stables is a world removed from the storehouses within the sacred precinct.”
“Meryamon had no family in Waset, so he shared these quarters with several men of similar circumstances who toil here in the sacred precinct.” Bak crossed the threshold, leav ing the small dwelling in which the priest had lived.
Hori stood outside, trying to catch his breath after his speedy journey from the Medjays’ quarters. “How will I know which records were his, sir?”
“They keep no records here.” Bak led the way down the narrow, dusty lane. “Such a thing is frowned upon by the
Overseer of Overseers, who insists that all records remain in the storage blocks or be taken to the central storehouse archives. Also, the house is too small, with no space for any thing but the most personal of items. In Meryamon’s case, clothing, scribal equipment, and a few short letters from his father, a public scribe in Abedju.”
The path they trod was hugged on both sides by small in terconnected buildings that housed servants of the lord
Amon and their families: craftsmen, scribes, bakers and brewers, and innumerable others who performed duties re lated to the well-being of the deity and the priests and scribes who tended to the god’s needs.
Hori half ran to keep up. “Since many of the records
Meryamon kept in the storage block now lie on the roof of our quarters, practically impossible to read, I’ll go to the archives. How far back should I begin?”
“The day he was given his present task. About three years ago, according to the men who shared his dwelling place.”
“I thank the lord Amon he was a young man.” Hori dropped back to follow Bak around a donkey tethered in front of an open doorway. Inside they heard a woman berat ing her husband. “By the time I finish this task, I’ll know the comings and goings of the ritual equipment as well as he did. Maybe better.”
Bak ignored the mild complaint. “While you’re there, ask the scribes if they have any records of dealings between the
Hittite merchant Maruwa and any scribe or priest within the sacred precinct.”
“Why would the lord Amon have need of horses? They’re much too valuable to be used as beasts of burden or for food or to be sacrificed. I know couriers sometimes ride them, but all they’re really good for is to pull a chariot.”
“I’ll not lay down a bet that you’ll find him named,” Bak admitted, “but you must look anyway. And don’t forget the workshop where the objects are cleaned and repaired.
They’ll have records, too.”
“I know no more now than I did the day Maruwa died.”
Lieutenant Karoya eyed the busy market, his expression glum. “I’ve had scant time to give the matter the attention it deserves. My duties during the Beautiful Feast of Opet are many and varied, and the offenses my men detect each day are multiplied ten times ten over those of any ordinary day.”
He raised a hand as if to stave off comment. “I know, sir. I’m making excuses where none should be made.”
Bak ducked out of the way of two men carrying a large rectangular wooden box that looked much like an unadorned coffin. “I can see for myself how many ships lie along the waterfront and how busy this market has become.”
His elbow bumped a wooden support, making the rickety stall beside them rock. Strung beads hanging from a cross beam rattled, earning Bak a scowl from the proprietor, a wrinkled old man who sat on the ground surrounded by his wares: beads and amulets, bracelets and anklets, combs, per fume bottles, and the sticks and brushes used for painting the eyes and lips.
“I wish I had more time. From what little I’ve learned,
Maruwa was a decent man and deserves better.” Karoya’s at tention was focused on three harbor patrolmen standing in the middle of the broad pathway between the rows of stalls, questioning a man caught substituting false weights for true.
The miscreant was on his knees, with two patrolmen holding him and one applying a stick to his back and legs. A crowd had begun to form around them, blocking the pathway, forc ing others to watch whether or not they wanted to. The on 118
Lauren Haney lookers talked among themselves, some curious, some com plaining, some thrilled by the small spectacle. A few offered wagers as to exactly how long the scoundrel could hold out before admitting his offense.
Bak queried Karoya with a glance, and the young Medjay officer nodded. Together, they stepped into the open, making themselves visible. Men of authority keeping an eye out for trouble. The crowd seemed mild enough, but like all sponta neous and uncontrolled gatherings, could quickly go out of control.
“Have you learned anything about his activities here in
Waset?” Bak asked.
“Not much.”
“Was he not a regular visitor to the city?”
“He came often enough, once or twice a year. But mer chants come and go. They seldom establish long or deep friendships. Not here at the harbor, at any rate.” Karoya paused, letting a braying donkey have its say. “I wish I could be of more help, sir, but you see how it is.” He swung his arm in an arc encompassing the growing crowd and the noisy activity around them.
Bak sympathized. The waterfront was lined with ships four or five deep and the market was three or four times larger and busier than when last he had seen it. “I’d suggest you go to the garrison for help, but by the time you’ve trained more men, the festival will be over.”
“I’m sorely tempted nonetheless.”
Karoya studied the gathering crowd, the increased bet ting. A resolute look settled on his face and he whistled a signal to his men. They jerked their prisoner to his feet and lowered their spears to a diagonal, the points slightly above head level should they need to force their way through the crowd. Onlookers stepped aside, opening a path, and they half walked, half dragged the rogue to the side lane that led to their building.
The Medjay officer visibly relaxed. “The men I’ve talked with-both sailors and other merchants-all agreed that
Maruwa was good-natured, easy to be with, and was utterly honest in his dealings. As far as they know, he had no woman troubles, no debts, no bad habits.”
“What of Captain Antef’s suggestion that he might’ve been involved in Hittite politics?”
Karoya stepped away from the booth and led the way into the rapidly dispersing crowd. “If he was, either no one knew or no one will speak of it.”
“I assume you’ve talked with Hittites dwelling in Waset?”
“Yes, sir. Well, with one, at any rate. I spoke with a man named Hantawiya, who’s a kind of informal leader among them. He seemed not to like Maruwa very much. I guess the merchant had taken a woman of Kemet as his concubine and it didn’t set well with Hantawiya, but he could find nothing bad to say about him.” Karoya smiled, remembering. “I could see he wanted to.”
Bak stepped hastily around a woman carrying a large basket of coarsely ground flour. She reeked of sweat and a harsh perfume. He was not convinced one man’s opinion of another was in any way satisfactory. “He made no connec tion between Maruwa and the sacred precinct of the lord
Amon?”
“The subject never arose, and I’m certain it would’ve if
Hantawiya had suspected such a thing. He’s the kind of man who seeks reasons for disapproval, and he’d certainly not condone one of his countrymen getting involved with a god of any land but that of Hatti.”
“He sounds a disagreeable sort.”
“He is.” Karoya sidled past a mound of greenish melons displayed on the ground. “I can’t believe Maruwa’s
