Bak knelt on the opposite side of the pool so he could see her face, which was cool, composed, a picture of studied re finement. Like the garden and the pond, where not a leaf marred the water’s surface, her appearance was faultless. He eyed a small green frog sunning itself on a lily pad and won dered how it dared invade a place of such perfection. “Do you have any idea who in your household might’ve wished to foment trouble in Hatti, and for what reason?”
“My husband is a man of integrity, Lieutenant. I suspect he made the Hittite king look and feel small. I think that king accused someone in our household, offering no name or proof of wrongdoing because none existed, and had us withdrawn so he wouldn’t have to be reminded day after day of his own petty nature.”
“An interesting theory.”
“You sound skeptical, Lieutenant.”
Bak thought her idea absurd. “Did you ever meet Maruwa?”
“I did not.” Her voice was firm, the statement absolute.
Rising to his feet, he said, “While you dwelt in Hattusa, mistress, Pahure obtained for you and your sister several small but desirable items imported into Hatti from the land of Kemet. Did you ever meet the merchant he purchased them from? Zuwapi is his name.”
“What reason would I have to talk to a Hittite merchant?
Or a merchant in Kemet, for that matter. That’s Pahure’s task, one he performs well enough.”
Bak walked a few paces along a path he had trod many times over the past hour. He had to admire the steward, who must surely have the patience of a deity to put up with this woman. Was she the daughter of a nobleman, reared to look down upon all others? Or did she come from baser stock and thought to prove her superiority by belittling all who drew near?
“Do you ever meet priests or scribes who toil in the sa cred precinct of the lord Amon?” Walking back to the pool, he made a silent guess as to her answer. She did not disap point him.
“I’ve met the chief priest and a few of his closest advisers on social occasions.” She flashed a bright smile. “Ha puseneb is such a wonderful man. I’m sorry we won’t see him during the Beautiful Feast of Opet, but as you may or may not know, he’s much too involved with official rituals to celebrate with good and companionable friends, as the rest of us do.”
Before he could congratulate himself on his perspicacity, she added, “You’re not interested in Hapuseneb, are you?
You want to know if I was acquainted with the men who were slain in the sacred precinct.”
“Your husband told you I’d ask,” Bak said, trying not to sound annoyed. Of course Pentu would have warned her; carrying the tale might have earned him a pat on the head.
“We keep few secrets from each other, Lieutenant.”
“And you keep no secrets from your sister, I’d wager.”
She smiled, bowed her head in acknowledgment. “We’re very close, yes.”
Bak snapped a large yellowish blossom from a vine that climbed the wall of the one-story dwelling that abutted the garden. The flower gave off a heavy, slightly musty scent.
“Did you know either the priest Meryamon or the scribe
Woserhet?”
“No, Lieutenant, I didn’t. Neither was of sufficient rank to accompany Hapuseneb.”
Bak dropped the blossom into the pool, earning a scowl from Taharet. “I’ve no further questions, mistress, at least not at the moment. Perhaps later my quest will take me down a different path and I’ll have a need to make additional inquiries.”
She rose gracefully to her feet, formed a gracious but not especially sincere smile. “I’ll have a servant see you to the door.”
“Before I go,” he said, his smile matching hers, “I must speak with your sister.”
She paused, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?
She’s ill, unable to talk with anyone.”
“When will she be well enough to see me?”
“I’m not a physician, Lieutenant. How can I predict the course of an illness?”
Walking away from the dwelling, thoroughly annoyed,
Bak thought over his interview with the woman. Her atti tude, once warm and friendly, had changed completely.
Why? he wondered. Did she feel his investigation threatened her husband and therefore her comfortable existence?
Meret’s illness, he felt sure, was a lie. Had Taharet decided to hold him and her sister apart, fearing they might grow fond of each other?
“I’m sorry, sir, but they’ve all gone.” The haggard-looking woman stood with one thrust-out hip straddled by a naked child about two years of age. The boy, his thumb in his mouth, stared wide-eyed at Bak.
“Do you have any idea where they went?” Bak stepped out of the house where the scribe Tati and the four workmen had dwelt and toiled for Woserhet. He had found the build ing empty of furnishings and life.
“They came without a word, and that’s the way they left.”
Bak muttered an oath. Why had he not sent Kasaya back another time? He needed to speak with the man, needed to look through the auditor’s records. “Did the scribe leave with the others?”
She snorted. “Do you think they’d make a move without him?”
“My Medjay came three days ago, searching for him.
When he didn’t find him, he left a message that I wanted to see him.” Bitterness tinged Bak’s voice. “Now I find he’s been here all along.”
“No, sir. He’s been gone.” She grabbed the child by its bare bottom and heaved it higher on her hip. “I hadn’t seen him for several days, then he returned this morning and in less than an hour they’d all moved out.”
Why such a hasty departure? Bak wondered. Was Tati afraid for his life for some reason? Were they all frightened?
Or had they merely been given another assignment? Where had Woserhet’s files been taken?
“They’re not here, sir.”
Bak frowned at the mat covering the door of the house where Ashayet dwelt with her children. “Have they gone for an hour or a day?”
The girl, roughly eight years of age, the tallest of the six children barring Bak’s path, kept her expression grave. He guessed she was an older sister, caretaker of her smaller sib lings. “Mistress Ashayet’s husband, Woserhet, has been slain, sir. He’s in the house of death. As he’ll be there for some time, she thought to go away, to stay with her mother and father until she must place him in his eternal resting place.”
Recalling the modest way in which Woserhet had dwelt,
Bak doubted the widow had sufficient wealth to have his body preserved in the most elaborate and lengthy manner.
What little she had, she must use to care for her children.
“When does she plan to return?”
“Not for a long time, sir.”
“They’ll be gone for at least a week,” said a small boy in a chirpy voice.
“Shush!” the girl commanded. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, sir. They went to Abu. They’ll be gone close to two months.”
A voyage to Abu? An extended stay? “Woserhet will re main in the house of death that long?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” A bright, excited smile lit up the girl’s face.
“A priest named Ptahmes came and he spoke for no less a man than the chief priest Hapuseneb. He told mistress
Ashayet how highly regarded her husband had been and said the lord Amon himself would see that he received the best of care in the house of death. He’ll also be given a resting place befitting his upstanding character.”
Bak whistled. The smaller children nudged each other and giggled, delighted their sister had impressed him so.
“If the chief priest can take the time to provide Woserhet with more in death than he had in life, why can’t he
