In less serious circumstances, Bak might have smiled.
Normally unassuming in appearance and behavior,
Amonked could don a cloak of power as easily as his cousin,
Maatkare Hatshepsut, should the need arise. “We’ll not keep you long, sir. What I have to reveal is easily explained.”
“Governor Pentu has all along denied that any member of this household would foment trouble in the land of Hatti.”
Bak, standing with Amonked beside the dais, glanced at
Pentu, who occupied the sole chair on the raised platform.
The governor stared straight forward in stony silence, one hand clutching his long staff of office, the other the arm of his chair. “His refusal to believe in spite of the fact that our pres ent envoy to Hattusa verified the accusation was one of sev eral factors I considered when thinking over the problem.”
Bak eyed the three men-Sitepehu, Netermose, and
Pahure-standing before the dais, and Taharet and Meret, seated side by side on low stools. All but the priest had been interrupted in various stages of adorning themselves for the
festival. Sitepehu, who had to rise early to make the morning offerings to the lord Inheret, wore the full- length kilt, jew elry, and robe of his priesthood; his shaven head gleamed in the light streaming down from a high window. Netermose, who had barely begun to dress, wore nothing but a knee length kilt and broad multicolored collar. Pahure wore a long kilt, broad collar, and bracelets, but had not applied eye paint or donned a wig.
Both women wore lovely white sheaths of the finest linen, but there the resemblance ended. Meret was fully groomed, bewigged, and bejeweled, ready to leave the house. Taharet was partially made up and her hair hastily combed. She wore no jewelry. She had obviously been caught unprepared for guests-or for the necessary accusa tions. Her discomfort at having to show herself when not looking her best was apparent, a gift from the gods Bak had not expected.
“Of more significance,” he went on, “was mistress
Taharet’s sudden disapproval of me and her refusal to allow me to speak with mistress Meret.”
“You’re a common soldier,” Taharet said, her nose high in the air. “Unworthy of my sister.” She was clearly annoyed at not being provided with a chair beside her husband, a po sition of honor due to the mistress of the house. A momen tary oversight on Pentu’s part that Bak and Amonked had reinforced by suggesting stools for the women.
“So you would have me believe,” Bak said, bowing his head in mock deference.
She opened her mouth as if to reply, but Meret took her hand and squeezed it, cutting off whatever she meant to say.
“The men of the household all expressed a healthy respect for the violence and cruelty of Hittite vengeance. Taharet and Meret, on the other hand, offered no comments about the Hittites’ brutality even though they spoke the tongue of
Hatti, associated with the people of that wretched land, and had to have had a knowledge of its ways.”
Pentu’s mouth tightened. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Lieutenant.” He did not raise his voice, but none who heard him could miss the ominous tone.
“Am I?” Bak asked, directing the question at the two women.
“My wife is a fine woman, above reproach, and so is her sister. To accuse either of them of wrongdoing is an affront
I’ll not tolerate.”
That Pentu feared his wife was the guilty party, Bak had no doubt. “I accuse one of becoming involved in the politics of the land of Hatti. How deeply embroiled the other was, I hope to discover. At the very least, she maintained a silence that brought about your recall from Hattusa.”
Sitepehu sucked in his breath. Pahure muttered a curse.
Netermose took a quick step forward as if to come to some one’s aid. Who he should help he seemed not to know, for he looked uncertainly from Pentu to the women and back again.
The governor slammed a fist on the arm of his chair, star tling everyone. “The charge is false!”
Bak studied the women, Taharet staring back defiantly,
Meret sitting demurely, one hand in her lap, the other hold ing her sister’s hand, despair clouding her face. His heart ached for her, but he could do nothing to ease her anguish.
What had been done in Hattusa was too serious, threatening the throne of a king friendly to Maatkare Hatshepsut and the peaceful relations between the two lands. On a level more personal to every man and woman in Pentu’s household, not one of them would have returned alive to Kemet if that king had not chosen, because he also valued that friendship, to close his eyes to the vile deed.
He pointed his baton of office at Taharet. “You, mistress, have much to account for.”
“Get out!” Pentu leaped from his chair. “Get out of my house. My wife is innocent of wrongdoing, and I’ll allow no more of these… these… false charges.”
Bak whistled a signal. Psuro and four Medjays hurried through the door and across the room. “Take her away,” he said, pointing at Taharet.
Pentu’s face paled. One did not arrest an individual for treason on a whim. Especially with Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin serving as a witness. “No! It can’t be.” The worm of doubt crept into his voice, his face. “It’s untrue, I tell you.”
Taharet stared at him, shocked and dismayed by his wan ing confidence. As a Medjay reached for her, she ducked away and dropped to her knees before her husband. “I’ve done nothing wrong, my beloved. I swear I haven’t.”
He reached toward her, then slowly withdrew his hand be fore touching her hair. She moaned deep down inside.
Two Medjays caught her arms and lifted her to her feet.
She looked wild-eyed at Bak, cried out, “You can’t tear me from my home! I’m innocent, I tell you.”
Bak looked upon her with pity. He was not proud of what he had to do, but it must be done. “You lived in Sile on a ma jor trade route and learned to speak the tongues of many lands, including Hatti. Your father, a merchant, kept you and your sister by his side to serve as translators. As a result, you met all who traveled through that border city-merchants, envoys, soldiers-and you could speak to them with ease.
One of you fell in love with a man from Hatti and continued your relationship when you dwelt in Hattusa.” Much of what he said was conjecture, but he felt sure he was close to the truth.
Pentu stared at his wife, appalled. “You? You would be unfaithful to me? To a man who held you close, who raised you onto a plinth and worshipped you as a goddess?”
A harsh sob burst from Taharet’s throat. “I’ve done noth ing to be ashamed of. Nothing!”
Pentu’s expression turned severe, cool. “You’ve betrayed me, woman.”
“No,” Taharet sobbed. “I swear I haven’t.”
Bak glanced at Meret, who was staring at her sister, her face whiter than the whitest of linen. He could almost feel her pain, and remorse threatened to undermine his resolve.
“Take her,” he said to Psuro, “to the Great Prison of Waset.”
As the men pulled Taharet away from the dais, Meret sprang to her feet. “You must release her, sir. She’s done nothing worse than protect me. I’m the one who became em broiled in Hittite politics.”
“Meret!” Taharet cried. “Don’t.”
Pahure strode quickly to Meret’s side. “Be silent, mis tress. He knows not of what he speaks.”
Meret appeared not to hear either of them. “I did what I had to do, not for myself, but for a man I cared for above all others.” She looked at Bak, her distress evident. “Your as sumption was correct, Lieutenant. I fell in love with a Hit tite. A man of royal blood, who wished to unseat the king and replace him with another. I did nothing more than carry messages, but I knew their contents and sympathized.”
Bak clamped his mouth tight, forbidding himself from urging a denial. The admission had sealed her fate and she was wise enough to realize that her life was over.
The steward placed a protective arm around her. “You must not believe her, Lieutenant. She owes to her sister all she has. She’d say anything to protect her.”
Bak stood quite still, looking at the pair. He dared not look at Amonked. They had remained together long into
