“Back again, Lieutenant?” Sitepehu asked, rising to his feet.
“I don’t mean to disturb your ritual.”
“You didn’t. I found the incense no longer burning and had to relight it.”
Bak glanced around the chapel, which was far from large but more than adequate for a provincial deity visiting the capital. “Pentu treats you and your god very well, I see.”
“He’s a good man, Lieutenant, one I fear you’ve thor oughly misjudged. He may’ve been in a position to cause trouble in Hatti, but let me assure you, he didn’t. I should know. I helped him daily with official documents, and I ac companied him to all state affairs.”
“I don’t say he’s the guilty man, but someone in this household is.” Bak looked thoughtfully at the priest. “He took you with him when he went to the palace in Hattusa?
Was that not unusual?”
Sitepehu scowled at the smoking incense, so thick it was more apt to smother the god than sweeten his nostrils with its heavy scent. “He didn’t entirely trust the translators, and though I speak the language with difficulty, I can understand it well enough to spot a poor or erroneous rendering of the words.”
“You’re a man of many talents, Sitepehu. You know the arts of war, you’re a gifted scribe, and you can understand a foreign tongue. Perhaps you were the man who wished to cause trouble in Hatti.” Bak smiled, trying to make light the accusation.
Sitepehu flung him a startled look, then laughed. “I value my life far too much to poke around in the politics of Hatti.”
The breeze faltered, letting the smoke travel where it would. A spiral of black twisted and turned like an unkind spirit seeking them out. Bak stepped backward, hoping it would not find him. “Have you ever met Captain Antef, mas ter of a cargo ship that plies the waters between here and
Ugarit?”
“I’ve never seen incense burn so poorly. I must’ve bought an inferior product.” Sitepehu waved away a coil of smoke and motioned Bak to precede him out the door. “I’ll let it smolder for a while. With luck, whatever is making it misbe have will burn away.”
“Captain Antef?” Bak prompted.
“Hmmm.” Sitepehu led him to the bench by the pool.
“Wasn’t that the name of one of the seamen who came to the dwelling we were using in Ugarit? Pahure brought several men to see Pentu when we were searching for a ship big enough to hold all our personal and household belongings.”
“Can you describe him?”
The priest sat down, plucked a spear of grass from a nearby clump, and bit off the tip. “A man of medium height, going to fat. One whose appearance in the past must’ve drawn women like flies to honey.”
Bak spotted the small green frog he had seen before, sun ning itself on a lily pad. Its long tongue shot out, catching a tiny flying insect. “Sounds like him.” He eyed the priest with interest. “Did you select his ship for your move?”
“Pahure made the decision. Not I. And he chose another vessel.” The priest scratched his elbow. “As I recall, the cargo already on board was large, leaving the deck with in sufficient space to accommodate our belongings.”
“What did you think of Antef?”
“A scoundrel, like most men of the sea. A bit too effusive.
Likable in his own way, I suppose.”
“Did you ever see him anywhere else? In Hattusa, for ex ample?”
Sitepehu chuckled. “The Hittite capital, Lieutenant, is many days’ journey inland by donkey, not a trip a seaman would be likely to make.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pahure was not at Pentu’s dwelling but, thanks to yet another servant, Bak learned he had gone to a nearby market. As he walked along a narrow lane that would take him to the river’s edge and the place where fishermen and farmers tied up their small vessels, he thought of the ease with which he had obtained the steward’s location. Servants normally were not so helpful to an outsider, especially one prying into the lives of those to whom they owed their daily bread. Did that particular servant hold a grudge against Pahure, or was there a general discontent in the household? The latter seemed to be the case, since a different servant had as easily helped him find Sitepehu and another had directed him to Neter mose the day before.
He walked out of the mouth of the lane and swerved aside, making way for several women laden with fresh fish and string bags and baskets filled with the bounty of the fields. He was always amazed, when so much of the land lay beneath the floodwaters, to see fresh fruit and vegetables in the markets, yet he should not have been. He had grown to manhood in this valley and knew the ways of the land and its tenants. Farmers whose fields lay higher than most, those who suffered dearly in times of a stingy flood, reaped an abundant harvest when the flood was normal, while their fel lows waited for the lord Hapi to withdraw his gift of water.
He walked along the river’s edge, eyeing the fish laid out on the grass; crisp lettuce, radishes, and melons; ducks and geese slaughtered and dressed for use or caged to be sold alive; fresh bread; jars of honey, local wine, and beer; flow ers. Along with the many mistresses of the house and female servants doing their daily shopping, a few well-appointed men were walking along as he was, looking at the produce, comparing one offering with another, haggling for the best price. Most had servants in tow. They were like Pahure, Bak assumed, men responsible for provisioning the households of provincial noblemen come to Waset for the festival.
He spotted Pahure standing before a fisherman whose years in the sun had burned his skin to the texture of leather.
The old man squatted on the grass behind a display of sil very fish, most the size of a hand, but one a perch as long as
Bak’s arm. A younger man identical in size and shape and with similar features sat in the small, unpainted fishing boat drawn up against the riverbank, mending a net while his fa ther sold the day’s catch.
A plump, ruddy-faced female servant knelt before the dis play, examining the perch. The creature’s scales glistened in the sunlight; it smelled as fresh as the water from which it had been pulled. Two youths stood beside Pahure, one carry ing a string bag bulging with produce, the other holding an empty basket.
“That fish has been lying in the sun a long time,” Pahure said, acknowledging Bak’s presence with a nod. “I’ll give you…” He made an offer, slightly below the customary half of the initial asking price.
The old man’s expression darkened. “I pulled it from the water at dawn, sir.”
The steward raised his offer slightly and the fisherman lowered his demand by a similar amount. And so the hag gling went until buyer and seller were close.
“I can offer no more.” Pahure rested a well-groomed hand on the slight bulge of his stomach. “That’s all the perch is worth to me.”
“I can’t give away so fine a catch. I’ve a family to feed.”
Pahure shrugged. “The morning’s almost over. Soon this market will close. Do you wish to return home with a fish this size?”
The old man looked at Bak. “This fish is fresh, sir, I swear by the lord Hapi. Surely you can see this man’s not offering fair value.”
Bak, well aware that the offer was equitable, creased his brow as if giving the matter serious thought. “The perch is indeed a worthy creature, a thing of exceptional beauty, but by nightfall its value will drop to nothing and by tomorrow you’ll have to bury it to escape the smell. Are you willing to lose everything in a vain effort to gain an insignificant amount?”
Pahure’s mouth twitched slightly. “How many other fish are you taking home, old man? Will they go bad along with this one because of your greed?” Before the fisherman could answer, he signaled his servants that they should leave. The young woman rose to her feet and turned away, as did the youths.
The old man adopted a look of utter dejection. “All right, sir. All right. You can have the fish for the pittance
