The trio on the platform failed to notice.
“Maatkare Hatshepsut appointed Pentu as envoy to the
Hittite court at Hattusa,” Amonked said. “He served her well for close on two years-or so she believed.”
Bak rapidly overcame his surprise. He recalled the sever al times he had met the governor, each time with the chief treasurer, and the many lofty guests who had been at his home. No wonder the incident in Hattusa had been kept quiet. To Karoya, he said, “Pentu is governor of the province of Tjeny.”
The young officer’s soft laugh held not a shred of humor.
“When word reached my cousin,” Amonked said, his tone ponderous, “she was inclined to ignore it, thinking Pentu a man of too much integrity to involve himself in the politics of another land. Her advisers, however-and I among them-convinced her he must be recalled. No one believed him to be the guilty party, but someone close to him was. He was compromised, so much so that he could no longer serve her needs.”
“Thus he was brought back to Kemet and someone else was sent to Hattusa in his place.” Bak rubbed the spot on his arm where the mosquito had been, rousing the itch. “Was the traitor ever identified?”
“As the activity stopped upon Pentu’s recall, the investi gation was dropped.”
“Perhaps it shouldn’t have been.” Bak flung a wry smile at
Karoya. “Pentu and the members of his household arrived in
Waset a few hours before Maruwa was slain. They’re still here and will remain throughout the festival.”
Amonked’s mouth tightened. “Pentu may be overly trust 134
Lauren Haney ing, but he’d not involve himself in the politics of another land. Nor would he kill, not even to silence a man capable of spreading a tale that would besmirch his character.”
“My hands are tied, sir, because men who might help me are fully occupied with the Opet rituals. Must I also be blinded because I dare not approach a man as lofty as
Pentu?” Bak knew he should have exercised more tact, but he thought Amonked a good enough friend to overlook the impertinence.
Amonked glared at the sentry kneeling in front of the main gate to the sacred precinct, scratching the belly of a black puppy. “I’ll speak with the vizier.” Forgiving Bak with a humorless smile, he grumbled, “He may wish you to reex amine the incident.”
So saying, he strode across the platform and up the path toward Ipet-isut. Bak, praying he had not leaped into waters too deep and swift to navigate, followed with Karoya. The young Medjay officer looked vastly relieved that he was not the man who might have to tread on such noble and lofty toes as those of a provincial governor.
“Is the ship on which Maruwa was slain still moored at the harbor?” Bak asked.
“It is, but not for long. Captain Antef came to me yester day, saying he wishes to set sail tomorrow. I saw no reason to hold him.”
“Tomorrow? Midway through the Beautiful Feast of
Opet?”
“Since unloading the horses, he’s taken on a new cargo.
He has a long voyage ahead of him, all the way to Ugarit, and carries objects that must be transported overland before winter falls.”
“What difference would five or six days make when the length of the voyage can vary greatly, depending upon the weather?” Bak raised his baton of office, saluting the sentry, who had shot to his feet the instant he noticed their approach. The puppy sat on its haunches, looking up at the man, crying. Bak followed his companions through the gate that opened into the limestone court in front of Ipet-isut.
“Sir,” he said to Amonked, “will you send an official order to the harbormaster? I wish Captain Antef’s ship to be de tained, its cargo guarded so nothing can be moved.”
“I resent being held here, Lieutenant.” Antef, standing in front of the forecastle of his ship, glared at Bak. “Must I be made to suffer merely because I had the misfortune of hav ing a man murdered on my vessel?”
“I’d think you’d look upon Maruwa as the unfortunate one.”
“I do. Of course I do.” The captain’s breast swelled with indignation. “Nonetheless, I should not be required to re main in Waset. I know nothing of his death except what I saw the day you found him.”
Bak stood with his back against the angle of the prow, looking the length of the deck, which appeared much differ ent from the last time he had been aboard. The mat walls of the deckhouse had been raised, allowing him to see all the way to the stern. The stalls had been removed, the piles of hay and bags of grain had been carried off, and the wooden flooring was so clean it glowed. Baskets and bundles and chests were stowed everywhere, not a large cargo, but enough, he assumed, to make an extended voyage worth while. Most of the crew had gone ashore. The two who re mained were toiling near the mast, talking together with the amity of men who have shared their tasks for months. When they believed themselves unobserved, they sneaked glances at Bak.
“You said at the time he may’ve been involved in Hittite politics. Do you know for a fact that he was?”
“A guess, that’s all.” Antef glanced around as if looking for something to sit on. Evidently the mounds of cargo lashed to the deck did not appeal, for he remained standing.
“A logical assumption. During all my voyages north, I’ve never seen a more bloodthirsty nation.”
“How often have you traveled in the land of Hatti?”
“Well… Never,” Antef admitted reluctantly. “But I’ve met many a man from there, and they’re all alike.”
Bak kept his expression bland, concealing his irritation with such generalities. “I’ve been told Maruwa was a fine man. Good-natured, hardworking, honest to a fault.”
Antef flushed. “He was different from the rest. A bit se cretive, but otherwise a good, cheerful companion on a long voyage. He cared for those horses he shipped as if they were beloved children. I know they were valuable, but still…”
The ship rocked beneath their feet, making the fittings creak, and the hull bumped hard against the mudbank beside which it was moored. One of the sailors, climbing up the mast, clung for his life and snapped out a chain of filthy oaths. The man seated on the deck below, unsnarling a tan gle of ropes, laughed heartily.
“Had you known him long?” Bak asked.
“Five years, maybe six.”
“Did he always transport the horses on your ship? Or did he use other vessels when this one wasn’t available?”
“Not many cargo ships are stable enough or have enough deck space to carry the numbers of animals he brought regu larly to Kemet. He knew of us all, and he used whichever vessel he found in Ugarit when he arrived. Or whichever was the first to reach that port if we all happened to be at sea.”
“What of his return journeys?”
“I’m quick to set sail-as are all of us who earn our bread on the water-and he usually stayed longer. Traveling alone, with no horses to transport, the size of the ship was of no im port. He could leave at any time on any vessel that happened to be sailing northward.”
Bak left the prow and walked slowly down the deck, look ing at baskets and bundles as he passed them by, reading la bels on the closed containers. Antef hurried after him like a mother goose concerned for her goslings. The cargo was di verse: the roughest of pottery and earthenware of a mediocre quality, leather goods, sheep skins, rough linen and fabric of a slightly higher quality, wine from a vineyard he had never heard of, strings of beads and other bright jewelry of small value. Scattered among these very ordinary trade items were bundles and baskets identified by their labels as containing finer goods. They appeared to have come from provincial es tates, although some had labels with ink so smeared they were illegible. Luxury items made within the household to be traded for a profit. Or so they seemed.
“Did you know Maruwa kept a woman in Waset?” Bak asked.
On a woven reed chest, he spotted a label he could not read: a flat chunk of dried mud tied to the handle, the sym bols scrawled and indecipherable. He knelt before the con tainer, broke the seal, and released the cord securing the lid.
Ignoring Antef’s shocked gasp, he looked inside. The chest was filled to the brim with fine linen.
“Damaged goods,” Antef hastened to tell him. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Bak read the tags on the surrounding containers and words inked on the shoulders of pottery jars. He found noth ing unusual or suspicious. Except the captain standing be side him, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the silence-or with Bak’s interest in his cargo.
