A Vile Justice (18 page)

She swung the tongs back and, leaping forward, slashed them hard across the other woman's shoulders. Blood gushed from the broken flesh. The injured girl screeched Bak lunged at the assailant, grabbed the tongs, and tore them from her grasp. Gripping her upper arm, he shoved her roughly to the bare earth. Khawet rushed to the other young woman, helped her to the mudbrick bench against the wall a few cubits away, and went to the kitchen door to call for cloth for bandages. Several women hurried out, more to look than assist, Bak suspected. A short, barrel-shaped woman he took to be the cook brought a bowl of steaming water and strips of linen.

Khawet turned to him and smiled an apology. "You must forgive me, Lieutenant, but this wound can't wait."

Bak walked slowly down the lane, passing through shadows cast by the taller houses and broad strips of sunlight that reached over the lower buildings. A breeze stirred the hot, dry air and lifted dust from the hard-packed earth. He smelled oil heating over charcoal braziers, but the hour was too early for the odors of cooked food to drift down from the rooftops. Children's laughter and the rhythmic click of

wood on wood told of boys playing with make-believe spears somewhere nearby.

He wondered if he would find an unwanted gift in his quarters. He had never before approached the house so early in the evening, nor had the gift-giver ever come before dusk, when shadows filled the lane and neighbors, preoccupied with their evening meal, were unlikely to be about. He glanced at the roof across the lane, but it was even too early for Psuro to have taken up his post.

He stopped before the doorway and peered inside. The room, illuminated by a lone shaft of light coming through the opening at the top of the stairs, was dim and shadowy but not dark. A round red pot three hand-widths across sat a pace or so inside the door. A white cloth, held tightly in place with string, covered the top. His first thought was food; the old woman had brought their evening meal. Then his eyes darted toward the stools he had restacked in the center of the room before leaving the house early in the day. They stood as he had left them, one upside-down on top of the other. No basket sat atop the three legs. The old woman would never have left their evening meal on the floor, where mice or rats could get to it.

This had to be another gift left by ... By whom?

His next thought was not so rational; the pot might contain a human head, crushed as Hatnofer's had been. A chill crept up his spine- and at the same time he rejected the idea. The neck of the container was too small.

Chiding himself for too vivid an imagination, he stepped over the threshold and knelt before the jar. The linen cover bothered him. The fabric would admit air, where the more usual mud plug would not, leading him to believe the container held a liming creature. Hearing nothing inside, he examined it for signs of cracks, thinking it might break in his hands, releasing a viper or something equally dreadful. The container looked solid enough, undamaged.

Sucking in his breath, he reached out with both hands and lifted it. Nothing happened. He brought it closer to his face, his ear, and shook it gently. Again nothing. He thought of untying the string, but common sense prevailed; such a precipitous move would be foolhardy. He shook the pot again, much harder. Inside he heard a soft but frenzied rattling sound. His mouth tightened and he nodded, fairly sure he knew what was inside.

Carrying the container with outstretched arms, he hurried outdoors and around the nearby corner. A short, dead-end lane took him to a low mudbrick wall. Beyond lay an open field. The broken walls of houses built and abandoned many generations before protruded from a heavy blanket of windswept sand littered with garbage, items of no value whatsoever, unwanted by the most impoverished of Abu's residents.

Bak set the container on the wall. Glancing around, he spotted a rock that would fit nicely in his hand and he picked it up. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and held it at arm's length, point down, over the linen.

"Sir!" Psuro hurried up behind him. "What're you doing?"

"The gift-giver arrived ahead of us, leaving this. I suspect it's lethal."

Psuro's eyes widened. He spat out a curse and stepped back a pace. "Do you wish me to open it, sir?" he asked with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Bak drove the dagger into the fabric and slashed to right and left, enlarging the hole. The soft rattling sound erupted. Psuro muttered a quick incantation designed to hold at bay poisonous reptiles and insects. Bak sheathed his dagger, shoved the pot over the wall, and threw the rock with a mighty heave, smashing the baked clay into a dozen or more rough-edged pieces. Yellow scorpions, their tails raised in fury, darted in all directions.

Bak stared at the creatures, his face grim. A single scorpion's sting would be painful but not deadly. Could a man live if stung by so many? "I think it best we spend the night in the barracks, Psuro. And tomorrow we must find new quarters.

"This should suit you, sir." Pahared eyed the empty room, a proprietary smile on his face. "It's the safest place in the province, that I guarantee." .

Glancing around a chamber he had already examined for vulnerable points, Bak nodded approval. "I couldn't have asked for better quarters."

"Not a man or woman in Swenet can come up here without being seen. My wife never closes her place of business, and when she's not in attendance, her steward is. And you've seen how many servants she has."

The room was large, providing ample space for Bak and his men. Diffused light fell through high windows protected by wooden grills. Above mudbrick stairs leading to the roof, a north-facing airshaft caught the breeze and channeled it downward. Hints of leather, oil, spices, and wine scented the air, elusive smells betraying the room's frequent use for storage. Through an opening in the floor, muted laughter and a faint smell of beer filtered up another stairway, this rising from a storage room at the rear of the house of pleasure.

Passing through an open door, he walked onto the firstfloor roof, whiok was walled by a knee-high parapet. From there, he looked over the rooftops of a block of single-story interconnected buildings and across the river toward Abu. No structures stood close enough to provide easy access. To the north, beyond a patch of young clover, he spotted Kasaya

standing on the quay, keeping an eye on their fully laden skiff.

"Good. Very good," he said, coming back inside. Psuro, seated in the opening above the descending stairway, dangling his legs, looked as pleased as Bak with their new quarters. "Can I now go to the quay and get our belongings, sir?"

"Before you bring them here, you and Kasaya must go through them once again, searching for unwanted creatures." "Yes, sir." The Medjay dropped onto the stairs and, whistling a light-hearted tune, hurried away.

"I, too, must go," Pahared said. "I've a load to deliver before nightfall. A caravan's been sighted coming in from the west, and the donkeys will need fresh fodder and grain. Only the lord Set knows how many days they've been on the desert trail." He took several steps down the stairs, paused, looked back up. "I've given orders that no one be allowed up these stairs and nothing be delivered. If you need anything-food, drink, a game of chance, or a womanspeak to my wife. She'll see you get it, but you or your men must bring it up."

Bak laid a hand on the trader's shoulder, smiled. "You've thought of everything, Pahared. You're a good man."

The big trader grinned. "I've been called sly, greedy, and a multitude of other names, none so pleasing to my ears." Laughing, he hastened down the stairs.

Left alone, Bak examined the contents of the two rear chambers, windowless rooms he had earlier given no more than a cursory glance. One was piled high with bundles of cowhides, stacks of rough linen, baskets of glazed beads, and piles of ordinary cooking pottery. The second held baked clay jars large and small whose contents were scratched on the mud plugs or scrawled on their shoulders: unguents, oils, wine, and honey. Except for the hides, a trading staple which came from Kush far upriver, all were common trade goods regularly shipped south from the land of Kemet to exchange for the more exotic products of Wawat and Kush. Pahared's business enterprises were clearly more far-reaching than

shipping hay to the donkey paddocks below and above the rapids.

Walking back to the main room, Bak's thoughts returned to the previous evening's gift. He had taken the scorpions as a direct threat, an intent to inflict pain and maybe even death on him or whichever of his men might have opened the pot. An escalation of the previous gifts, more fearsome in nature. A good night's sleep had not altered the assumption. As for its relationship to Hatnofer, from what he had learned of the housekeeper, she had had the temperament of a scorpion, a creature that goes peaceably about its business when left alone but attacks with a vengeance when disturbed.

"Lieutenant!" Kasaya came racing up the stairs, his arms loaded with folded bedding. "Governor Djehuty has summoned you, sir. He wishes to see you right away."

Bak hastened into the audience hall, thinking it the most logical place in which to find Djehuty so early in the morning. Though logic, he knew, had scant influence on the governor's behavior. Nor did common sense. Which made him wary of this summons, suspicious of what Djehuty might want. For him to break his silence seemed too much to hope for.

Guards stood at attention at all the doors. Twenty or so men and three women clustered around the columns, talking among themselves. Most were easy enough to identify: farmers, scribes, a couple of craftsmen, and a merchant. Standing out in bold relief was a bearded man wearing a long, colorful robe, a trader from the land of Retenu far to the north.

Anger darkened the visages of several men, petitioners Bak remembered seeing the previous day, men forced to return because theit pleas had remained unheard. Other, more optimistic individuals threw frequent expectant looks at the empty chair on the dais and the doorway nearby through which the governor would make his entrance.

Bak paused, not quite sure what to do next. Should he wait here or go in search of Djehuty? Had the governor forgotten he summoned him? Had he summoned him to charge him with some unspeakable offense? Or did he simply not care that Bak would have to wait while he held his audience? "Where is he?" asked a young farmer. "Does he not take his place on the dais each and every morning?"

"He should, yes." The scribe who answered, one whose duty it was to present the petitioners to the governor, looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"I waited all morning yesterday," a grizzled farmer grumbled. "As my time to be heard came close, he got up from his chair and walked out. Now here I am again when I should be toiling in my fields, plowing the earth and planting new crops."

"I was here, too," a plump scribe said. "And I also waited for no good reason."

"And I," a couple of men spoke up together.

Why am I worried about me? Bak chided himself. These are the people who have waited before and may have to wait again, while Djehuty goes on with whatever he wishes to do, indifferent to their needs.

"His father was a good man, as honest and fair as they come," an elderly craftsman said. "But this one..." He spat on the spotless white-plastered floor, showing his contempt. "He surely didn't come from the old man's loins. He must've been spawned by some sailor passing through Abu on a cargo ship."

Hiding a smile, Bak hurried across the room and out the door near the dais. If Djehuty had heard that last remark, he would be furious. He took great pride in the long, unbroken line of men from which he was descended, those men who, during the long-ago reign of Kheperkare Senwosret, had excavated tombs overlooking Abu from the high escarpment west of the river. He probably laid claim in his dreams to an even older and grander heritage.

Bak found Amonhotep in Djehuty's private reception room. The young officer sat on a stool at the foot of the governor's empty chair, sorting scrolls and placing them in baskets marked according to content. They would ultimately go to Simut, who would have the documents filed away in the records storage room.

He looked around, smiled his approval. Every chest, table, and stool stood in its proper place. The woven mats covering the floor were no longer strewn with crumbs or clothing or any other objects. The pillows on the armchair had been fluffed up and the leopard skin draped over its back. White lilies floated in a large, low bowl of water, their strong, sweet scent freshening the air.

The aide gave him a wry smile. "If ever you need a servant, would you take me into your household?"

Bak grinned. "Should I become a man of wealth-an unlikely occurrence, I warn you-I'd compete for your services with spear or bow or fists, if,need be."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Few men are as devoted to their masters as you are." Amonhotep gave an odd little snort. Bak suspected cynicism, bitterness, a helplessness to alter the situation, but as always the aide would commit himself no further.

"The governor wishes to see me, I understand." Amonhotep laid down the scroll he had been reading and ,rose to his feet. Bak had heard the expression "he girded his loins," but had never been sure of its meaning. Now he was. The aide visibly braced himself, as if about to face a foe on the field of battle.

Taking the act as forewarning, Bak followed him out of the room with leaden feet. What new manner of mischief could Djehuty have thought up?

A short corridor took them to a spacious bedchamber, where the governor lay in a mass of rumpled sheets on a fine cedar bed decorated with inlaid ivory images of the ramheaded god Khqum. His head and shoulders were propped up on several folded sleeping pallets and pillows. Beer jars, a basket of bread, and a bowl half full of coagulating stew sat on a nearby table. The room smelled strongly of sweat and the thick-bodied brindle dog curled up on a pillow atop a reed chest.

Bak, thinking of all those people standing in the audience hall, awaiting this man, had trouble concealing his disgust. The governor pulled himself higher on the pallets and his lip curled into a sneer. "So nice of you, Lieutenant, to respond at last to my summons."

Bak feigned indifference to the taunt. "I came as soon as I received your message, sir."

"I've been told you've moved out of your quarters in Abu."

Amonhotep gave him a surprised look. As close as he was to the governor and as important to the smooth functioning of the province, Djehuty apparently failed to keep him as informed as he should.

"That's right." If the swine wants an explanation, Bak thought, let him ask for it.

Djehuty stared at him, waiting. When Bak failed to oblige, he raised his chin high. His smile, meant to display triumph, betrayed defiance instead. "I, too, have decided to leave Abu. I plan today to sail north, to travel to my estate in Nubt, where I'll have no further need to live in fear."

Bak silently cursed the man-and himself. He should have guessed the urge to flee would sooner or later be irresistible. "Do you plan to take your staff with you? Your steward, chief scribe, and all those men closest to you?"

"Of course." Djehuty flashed him a contemptuous look, a man of noble birth looking with scorn upon a peasant. "I'll need servants, too, and guards. That accursed Ineni has let the household staff dwindle to only seven men and women. Not enough. Not nearly enough."

"You'll be no safer there than here." Bak kept his voice hard, matter-of-fact. "The man we seek knows every square cubit within this compound. He has to be a-member of your household. If you take even a portion of them, you've as great a chance of taking the slayer as you have of leaving him behind."

"I trust the men closest to me, and I need them." Djehuty's chin jutted. "You're just trying to frighten me, to justify your presence in my home."

"If you trust them so much, why won't you let anyone

but your daughter and Lieutenant Amonhotep enter your rooms?"

"Someone-a townsman who's lost his wits maybe, or a wandering desert tribesman-has found a way to get inside our walls, to trespass on my property. He's the slayer, the man you should be looking for."

Bak's head spun. Djehuty's thought processes defied comprehension. "If you go to Nubt, I'll have to go with you." "No!" Djehuty's voice rose. "I'll not have you there!" The dog raised its head, disturbed by its master's strident voice, but made no move to come to his aid. Reassured that it would not attack, Bak stepped forward to tower over the reclining man. "Are you ordering me back to Buhen, sir?" "Go away! Get out of my sight!"

Amonhotep moved up beside Bak. "What of the vizier, sir? How will you explain to him your lack of faith in the man he suggested you summon?"

Djehuty gave his aide a sullen look. "Lieutenant Bak is like a fly, buzzing around, asking endless questions, making vile insinuations. No man would tolerate such behavior, least of all the vizier."

"If you wish me to go, I will," Bak said. "But first you must prepare a document explaining to one and all that I've tried to convince you the slayer will strike again four days from now, and you're the most likely target. You must make clear that you've refused to listen and I should in no way be blamed should you die."

"I can write it up now, sir," Amonhotep said, "and have witnesses acknowledge it before midday."

Djehuty stared at first one officer and then the other. Defiance melted away and the shock of realization took its place. His trusted aide had allied himself with Bak. More important, he had no alternative but to place himself in Bak's hands. Suddenly he pulled a sheet up to his chin and huddled down in the bed, a man shrunk within himself.

"You'll stay in Abu?" Bak demanded. Djehuty nodded.

Bak stared down at an individual who looked utterly defeated. If he wanted the truth, this was the time to get it. "You hold a secret within your heart, one you've thus far failed to divulge. If you wish me to lay hands on the slayer before he lays hands on you, you must tell me."

"No." Djehuty shook his head in an exaggerated fashion. He squirmed beneath the sheet. "I have no secret." "Governor Djehuty. You must speak up."

"I have no secret!" he cried.

"What have you done that you'd rather die than admit?" "Nothing!" Djehuty gripped the sheet so tight his knuckles lost their color. "I've never committed an unspeakable deed! Never!"