courtyard to relieve himself, and when he returned, he found the archer Harmose with Azzia. Should he send him away or let them talk?
Harmose, Bak remembered, was the half-Medjay archer whom Nakht had made his translator. One of the four men who had been on the wall during the night. A man the commandant had trusted, so Imsiba believed. Why had he come now? He had to know Azzia’s usual activities had been restricted. Even her women friends had understood, sending servants with messages of sympathy rather than coming in person.
“I’ll speak with him,” Bak said.
Hori, unhappy at being left to toil alone, flung him an accusing glance. Paying no heed, Bak hastened upstairs. Midway across the courtyard, he had a clear view of Azzia’s sitting room. She and Harmose each occupied a low stool. They were leaning toward each other, speaking so softly their words did not carry beyond the door. Her hands were clasped in his. Bak quashed a vague feeling of envy and strode to the door. If Azzia had a lover, as Paser had so sarcastically hinted, could this be the man rather than Mery?
They saw him and drew apart. Harmose stood up with an annoyed frown. He was close to Bak in age, half a hand shorter; his shoulders were broader, his wrists thicker, his upper arms heavier. His terracotta skin and oval face had been passed to him in his father’s seed. His curly black hair, cropped short, had come from his mother, a woman of Wawat.
“Archer Harmose!” Bak said. “Have you not heard that mistress Azzia is to be left alone with her sorrow?”
Harmose’s expression was defiant. “She should be surrounded by her friends, not held apart like this and made to weep alone. How can you be so cruel?”
Bak swore beneath his breath at this second charge in one day that he had no heart. Considering the circumstances of Nakht’s death, he had been more than generous with her. Harmose knew it, he was sure. He yearned to defend his actions, but he swallowed the words. As Maiherperi had said: a policeman must look to the gods for his reward, for the men he helps thank him with curses.
Azzia touched the archer’s hand. “It’s all right, Harmose. I’m in my own home instead of a cell, and my servants are here to comfort me. For that I’m grateful.”
“Grateful?” Harmose asked. “When you’ve done nothing wrong?”
She glanced at Bak and attempted a wry smile. “As you can see, my friends believe me innocent.” She must have realized her voice was too brittle, for she gave up the pretense. “Have you learned anything at all that will prove I am?”
“Nothing,” he admitted.
Harmose’s face darkened. “You haven’t tried.”
“If your concern for mistress Azzia is sincere, you’ll come away with me now,” Bak said, refusing to be baited.
“I’ll do no such thing!”
“If I’m to find the one who slew the commandant, I must learn all I can of his last hours. Would you have my questions open an unhealed wound?”
“Go with him, Harmose. Help him in every way you can.” Azzia’s voice grew hard, taut. “I want to know the guilty man, and I want to see him punished unto death.” Her control shattered at the final word and she ran from the room.
Harmose attempted to follow, but Bak stepped into the doorway, blocking his path.
The archer glared. “All right. I’ll answer your questions. But only because she asks it of me.”
Bak ushered him across the courtyard to Nakht’s reception room, where they would have more privacy. He motioned him onto a stool and took another for himself. The floor had been cleaned of all traces of blood. The chair had been set upright; the table beside it and the two lamps had been taken away. Bak could almost feel the murdered man’s presence, as if his ka was seated in the chair, listening. Harmose must have felt it, too, for his eyes strayed in that direction.
“Where were you when Nakht’s life was taken?” Bak asked.
“You suspect me?” Harmose asked, indignant.
Bak muttered a curse. He should not have begun with so tactless a question. “Other than mistress Azzia, I suspect no one.” He held up his hand to stave off another spate of denials. “If she’s innocent, as you say, someone else entered this room ahead of her. Someone who may’ve been seen coming or going, maybe by you since you spent some time on the battlements.”
Harmose’s expression remained wary. “I was on the wall, yes, but…” Bak saw the temptation to lie on the archer’s face, heard the regret when he answered. “I could see nothing from where I stood. I was on the far side of the citadel, in a tower overlooking the quay.”
Bak gave him a curious glance. “You remained there for some time, I’ve been told. What held your attention?”
“I was born in Kemet and I long for the black, fertile lands of my father’s people.” He flushed, as if ashamed of the admission. “The ships give me hope that one day soon I’ll return.”
Bak eyed him with a new interest, with the sympathy of a kindred soul. “I didn’t see your name among those inside this building after Nakht was slain. Did word of his death not spread among the sentries?”
“I think by then I was in the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen,” Harmose said with some reluctance.
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “What took you there? Surely no one visits the god in the middle of the night.”
“I do. Often.” Harmose at first appeared unwilling to explain, but finally said, “When the forecourt is cool and quiet, with no others around, I feel closer to him than at any other time. Sometimes he comes to me there in the dark to let me know he watches over me always.” Harmose stared at Bak, daring him to doubt.
Bak eyed the archer with a mixture of awe and suspicion. No god had ever spoken to him, but he had heard tales of men who had been so honored. Could Harmose be one of them? “The god’s mansion lies little more than a hundred paces down the street. Before you went inside, did you see anyone entering this building or leaving it?”
Harmose appeared to breathe a little easier, but not much. “As I came out of the tower, I saw your men escorting the last of the brawlers inside. Not long after, I saw Lieutenant Mery go in. A short time later, I saw Lieutenant Nebwa come out of a side lane and walk along the street in front of the storehouse.”
Nothing, Bak thought. Nothing new, enlightening, or even interesting. Frustrated, he stood up and walked to the door. Across the courtyard, Ruru squatted in the shade of a potted sycamore, polishing his spear point. The old female servant bent over a loom shaded by potted trees. The peaceful domestic scene made Nakht’s violent death seem unreal. What am I doing? he wondered. Asking questions that lead nowhere, hiding gold I should report, seeking a murderer when the most likely suspect is within my grasp. What folly!
Sorely tempted to give up, he turned away from the door. As he did, he noticed, standing close by, the slim inlaid cedar chest, its lid askew. Without thinking, he raised the lid to set it in its proper place. Inside he saw two empty lamps and Nakht’s iron dagger lying beside a silver-inlaid leather sheath. The blade was covered with a dry brownish film, blood that had flowed through Nakht’s body. Bak stared at the weapon, his skin prickling. He was certain its presence there was an omen. Arranged perhaps by Nakht’s ka, urging him on.
He replaced the lid, crossed the room, and sat on a camp stool before the closed door behind which rose the stairway to the battlements. “What can you tell me of Nakht’s activities on the day of his death?”
“During the morning, nothing. I was outside the wall with the other archers, practicing with the bow. He didn’t summon me until early afternoon.”
“After he spoke with me.”
“So I believe.” Harmose shifted on the hard stool; he clutched his knees. “He called me into his office. He seemed troubled, said he wanted me to stay in the audience hall. He…he asked me to keep my bow within easy reach.”
Bak studied the archer closely, wary of his hesitant speech, his failure to make eye contact. Is he telling the truth? he wondered. Or has Azzia fed him the words to reinforce her story?
“Go on,” he said, hiding his suspicions.
“He summoned the lieutenants Nebwa, Paser, and Mery, one after the other, and spoke alone with each of them.” This time, Harmose’s eyes met his with no hesitation. The presence of the three officers in Nakht’s office had doubtless been noted by every man toiling in the building, so a lie would be foolhardy.
“Do you know what they talked about?”
