toward the mansion of the lord Amon-Kamutef, one aspect of the lord Amon, called the bull of his mother. The building, located across the processional way from the first barque sanctuary, where he and his Medjays had awaited the lord Amon seven days earlier-a lifetime ago, it seemed-was enclosed by scaf folds and construction ramps. Another of the many public examples of Maatkare Hatshepsut’s devotion to the gods.
He had had no time to think of the progression of the fes tival, to pause and watch the various processions to the gods that marked the week’s advance to the finale, the lord
Amon’s return voyage from Ipet-resyt to Ipet-isut. The gen tle early morning breeze, the temperate air, the smell of in cense and the rhythmic beat of drums were tempting, seductive. He glanced eastward toward the lord Khepre, still too low in the sky to burn away the blue haze hanging over the swollen river and flooded fields. Yes, he could stay for a short while.
Tossing the last of the fish to a skinny cat and flinging away the leaves in which it had been wrapped, he hurried along the processional way. Reaching the throng, he veered onto the trampled grass verge and wove a path through the spectators, about half the number who had watched the inau gural procession on the opening day of the festival. He was surprised to see so large a crowd so early in the morning, but the majority, he guessed, had come from afar and wished to make the most of their journey, seeing as much as possible during the eleven days of festivity.
He made his way to the barque sanctuary and climbed the ramp to stand in the portico, already occupied by a half dozen priests and four infantry officers. The raised platform proved an excellent vantage point, for he could look over the heads of the spectators and watch the procession come out of the god’s mansion.
The trumpet sounded again. The inconsequential chatter of the onlookers dropped to a murmur. A buzz of expectation filled the air. Men, women, and children eased forward, crowding the soldiers standing along the procession’s route.
Men beating drums and women with sistra and clappers strode out of a passage through the center of the scaffolding, their backs to the newly risen sun. A contingent of priests came next, a dozen or more men draped in white robes, holding colorful banners and the standards of god and sover eign. Other priests followed, each shaven bald and wrapped in a long white robe that covered him from neck to ankles.
Half of these oddly garbed men purified the air with incense, while the remainder sprinkled milk and water on the ground over which the deity would be carried.
The lord Amon-Kamutef followed, his golden shrine held high on the shoulders of priests. Voices, Bak’s among them, rose in adulation. The sides of the shrine were open, reveal ing a golden god, his penis erect, standing stiff and straight.
Beneath him, two rows of priests held the long poles sup porting the shrine. Shrouded in white, with nothing showing but their shaven heads and bare feet, they looked like a walk ing platform for the god. Perhaps in the distant past they had been intended to represent a snake. Another aspect of the lord Amon was Amon-Kematef, a primeval creator god who could resurrect himself by taking the form of a snake shed ding its skin.
On either side of the deity walked Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose, each touching a leg of the im age as if steadying it. They were too far away to see clearly, but Bak thought they were bedecked much as they had been in the opening procession of the festival. He could well imagine how hot the royal regalia would become as the sun rose higher and the day grew hotter.
Following along behind were musicians playing handheld harps and oboes and drums. Dancers performed intricate steps; singers chanted the words to a song so aged and ob scure that none but the god’s priests could understand. Shak ing off the temptation to stay, to watch the procession from beginning to end, Bak left the sanctuary. He had to get help for Hori.
With the beat of drums throbbing in his ears, he left the crowd behind and hurried north along the processional way, his feet crunching gravel no longer blindingly white, made dingy by the passage of many feet. Passing a company of soldiers, a family, and several men and women walking alone and in pairs, he rapidly approached the half-finished gate opening into the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut. The most direct route to the royal house, which lay north of the man sion of the lord Amon, was to walk through the sacred precinct.
“Sobekhotep told me of Woserhet’s death and explained your need.” Thanuny, the auditor Bak had borrowed from the royal house, had thinning gray hair and a worn face, but looked like a man who could wrestle a bull and come out the winner. “I knew him and liked him. I’ll gladly help you snare his slayer.”
Bak slowed at the intersection and looked both ways before crossing. He had vowed, after the second attempt on his life, to take greater care, but had immediately forgotten.
Now, remembering the pledge, he found himself being overly cautious. “When did you last speak with him?”
“A month or so ago. Upon his return to Waset after his lat est trip downriver.”
“He was inspecting the accounts of the gods’ mansions and also those of the provincial governors, I’ve been told.”
Bak sidled around a laden donkey, the baskets hanging on either side filled with golden grain. “Can you guess the rea son in light of what you now know?”
Thanuny dropped behind him to pass the sturdy creature.
“If, as you believe, he wished to trace offerings made to the lord Amon from production to disposal, the provinces would be the place to start. He’d learn what items were sent to Waset, follow their path to the storehouses, and find out if they were there. If not, he’d try to discover where they went.
“The only objects he wouldn’t be able to trace from the source are imports from foreign lands: gifts and tribute given to our sovereign by kings from afar who wish her con tinued good will, items wrested from far-off lands in times of conflict, and objects obtained for the royal house through trade. All are the property of our sovereign, who offers a portion to the gods, the lord Amon among them, as a demon stration of her generosity and devotion.”
Another intersecting street, another pause to look for trou ble, a silent curse at the need. “User, the Overseer of Over seers of the storehouses of the lord Amon, told me that a few objects no longer of use in the sacred precinct are given to the god’s small mansion in Mennufer and to his shrines, while the rest revert to the royal house. I’m speaking specif ically of the smaller, more valuable objects like those con tained in the storage block in which Woserhet’s body was found.”
“We receive items from the lord Amon, yes. Often in sur 196
Lauren Haney prisingly small quantities.” The auditor flung Bak a cynical smile. “Between you and me, Lieutenant, User is a stingy caretaker. Those storehouses in the sacred precinct must be filled to bursting, yet he doles out the excess as if each object was more precious than life itself.”
“If someone is systematically stealing from the god, per haps User truly doesn’t have the objects to give away.
Maybe he’s blind, not miserly.”
They approached a major street. Bak felt the need to pause, to peek around the corner. He resisted the urge. If he was to snare the slayer before the festival ended, he had no time to slink around the city like a feral dog.
They turned the corner and strode toward the building that housed the central archives for the storehouses of Amon.
“You’ll find my scribe Hori to be young and, in many ways, an innocent, but he knows records and he knows how to search through them. He’s done an exceptional job so far, but he’s one man alone. To do by himself what must be done would take him half a lifetime.”
“As I said before, Lieutenant, I’m happy to help. I’d not like to see Woserhet’s slayer go free and unpunished.”
The auditor seemed a competent and congenial man. Bak had an idea he and Hori would get along well.
“The task will be a pleasant break from counting spears and shields and pairs of sandals in the storehouses of the royal guards.” Thanuny’s smile vanished as quickly as it had formed. “But I must admit I’d not like to end my life as
Woserhet did.”
“You’ll find two Medjays with Hori. They’re well armed and well trained and exceedingly loyal. A man would have to slay them both to reach either of you.”
“You were right, sir. Zuwapi always ships his trade goods to Ugarit on Captain Antef’s ship.”
Hori glanced uncertainly at the auditor, standing at Bak’s side beneath the sycamore tree that shaded much
