A Vile Justice (12 page)

The sergeant barked an order. The circle broke up and the men formed lines along the ropes, ten to each team, facing away from the statue. After checking to make sure no line would snarl, the sergeant called out another order.

The men pressed forward, muscles bulging, sweat pouring from bodies and faces. The ropes grew taut, the statue moved slowly across the blocks toward the sledge. A man slipped and fell, tripping those around him. Three ropes grew slack, while the fourth remained taut. The image began to twist on its axis. Antef snapped out an order to release the last line. The men let go as if their fingers burned. The rope, no longer under tension, writhed in the sand, sending men scuttling out of its path. The statue lay still, flat on its back on four of the five blocks of wood.

Antef gave Bak a quick smile of relief, muttered a hasty prayer of thanks to the lord Khnum that no damage had been done, and gave the men time to rest. A few dropped where they stood; the remainder trudged across the sand, heading toward a group of donkeys laden with goatskin water bags.

The troop captain leaned back against an irregular wall of granite, bruised by the dolorite mallets used to widen the space between it and the block of stone that had become the statue. "I've heard tales of men who lived through sandstorms or were lost in the desert for days an end without food or water. Journeys through the belly of Apep, they were, marking them for life. Why would anyone wish to slay men who suffered so much?" Apep was a serpent demon of the netherworld, representing the forces of chaos and evil.

"Why would anyone slay their sons, youths who had nothing to do with the storm or its outcome?" Bak asked, sitting down on the statue's legs.

Antef stared at his clasped hands, unable to find an answer. Then he looked up with narrowing eyes. "You've said nothing of Hatnofer, I notice."

"As yet, I've found no tie binding her to any who survived."

"Not surprising. She could be warm enough when she wanted, friendly even, but she held all who knew her at a distance." Antef gave Bak a wry smile. "If I were you, I'd not cling too tight to that theory of yours. She may well prove its undoing-and yours."

The thought rankled and so did Antef's smirk. "I know you were a stranger to Abu until you replaced Djehuty as commander of this garrison. I also know," Bak added, stretching the truth, "that you lost someone close in that storm."

Antef gave him a long, measuring look. "I wasn't aware that information so personal could be found in garrison or provincial records."

"I've the basic facts, but I need the details." Bak was not about to betray Khawet to this man he felt sure loved her. "Ah, yes. I begin to understand. You've gone a step beyond identifying the victims as men who survived the storm. Now you're out to lay blame on men close to those who died."

"I'm seeking the truth."

Antef gave a sardonic laugh and stood up. "You'll find many forms of truth here in Abu, Lieutenant."

"So I've noticed." Bak rose to face him. "Would you prefer I hear of your loss from someone else? Or from you?" Antef stared expressionless at the younger officer, betraying no hint of his thoughts, letting the silence grow between them. The muf led thud of mallets carried through the air, background to a chattering flock of swallows raiding an anthill built in the crack of a weathered boulder. A few of the troops had begun to straggle back, but most looked in no hurry to return to their task.

"Come," Antef said. "I've something to show you." He struck off through the sand, staying close to the granite outcrop. Where they were going Bak could not imagine.

"I lost an uncle in the storm." Antef glanced down, watching where he placed his feet. "How much shall I tell you? Shall I assume you know nothing and give you every detail?"

Bak could have sworn the officer was hiding another smile, teasing. "I'll leave that to your good judgment."

A man uttered a string of oaths. They glanced around, saw a short, muscular individual kneeling on a nearby ledge, holding a mallet in one hand, sucking a finger on the other. A soldier, Bak assumed, impressed to do duty as a stonemason, clumsy with the tools of a trade he surely resented.

The troop captain walked on, untroubled by so common an occurrence. "As a boy, I lived on a small estate near the provincial capital of Zawty. My father plowed and planted for our master; my mother served *our mistress. I had no future beyond the land. Until my uncle, who long before had entered the army, took me into his household in Mennufer. He was an officer, an infantry lieutenant, and so he desired me to be. Close on twenty years ago, when I reached an age to enter the army, he was posted here in Abu. He brought me with him. Djehuty was here at the time, a lieutenant temporarily assigned to the garrison while he awaited a more desirable post. He refused to have me, saying he had enough young and green spearmen from Abu without taking on one from afar. My uncle had no choice: he sent me back to Zawty and the life I thought I'd left behind forever."

"No wonder you dislike Djehuty!"

"Fortunately, the gods chose to smile on me." Antef veered around a slick-haired white dog sniffing a pile of oily leaves that must earlier have held a workman's morning meal. "A friend of my uncle, a lieutenant in Mennufer, offered me a place in his unit. With his guidance and a natural aptitude for the art of war, I rose rapidly through the ranks. My uncle returned to Mennufer and life went on. I'd already attained the rank of troop captain when he was posted again to Abu. You know what happened: he vanished in the storm."

"Did Djehuty remember you when you came back?" "No, nor would he care if he had." Antef gave a hard, cynical laugh. "In his eyes, I was-and may still be-of no greater value than a donkey or an ox, to him no different from the men you see there." He swung his hand in an arc encompassing the quarry from one end to the other.

Bak eyed four men down on their knees on a rock surface flattened by some previous removal, a square column, perhaps, or an obelisk. Using as a guide a cord stretched across the stone, pounding chisels with heavy mallets, they were cutting a row of slits in the granite. Wooden wedges protruded from finished slits farther along the cord. After this back side of the block was fully notched, water would be poured on the wedges, making them swell to fracture the stone.

"These men are soldiers, too?" he asked, surprised. "This is the work of craftsmen!"

"Oh?" Antef's voice dripped sarcasm. "Why would Djehuty summon experienced quarrymen? Men he'd have to feed and house in addition to my troops?"

Expecting no answer, he strode on, his anger propelling him forward so fast Bak had to walk double time. They rounded a high, stubby finger of granite and came upon a circular bay excavated from the parent outcrop. A ridge sheltered the spot from the rest of the quarry, isolating it. If not for the distant thud of mallets, Bak would have thought himself far away and alone.

Antef ushered him toward a large red granite block, rectangular in form, with rounded comers at one end and the other end squared off. Even before he saw the partially hollowed interior, he recognized the object as an outer coffin. Only royalty could command the use of hard stone for an eternal resting place. This had to be for one of Kemet's joint rulers, either Maatkare Hatshepsut or Menkheperre Thutmose. The queen, most likely, since construction of her memorial temple was well on its way to completion.

He walked closer, wondering where the men were who should have been hollowing it out and preparing it for ship ment north to the capital. A ragged crack midway along the length of the box gave him the answer. The break ran through both walls and what remained of the core, dividing it into two pieces. The coffin had been abandoned for good reason.

Resting his hands on the edge, he eyed the fault. "Maatkare Hatshepsut must not have been pleased when she learned she'd never rest in this."

"This magnificent folly was ordered by and for Senenmut, her most trusted advisor. She knows nothing about it, and I pray to the lord Khnum she never will."

Bak whistled. He had heard tales of the steward's arrogance, but not one came close to this.

Antef's voice turned contemptuous. "Djehuty agreed, all smiles and bows, that we'd do the work and remain mute. A fool paying homage to one who could fall from the lofty heights in an instant, taking all in his wake with him."

Bak better understood the troop captain's anger. The load he had to bear was heavy indeed. "From what I've heard of Senenmut, when he sets his sights on a thing, he doesn't easily give up."

Antef nodded, understanding him perfectly. "Even now, a new coffin is being cut at a quarry north of Abu. Quartzite it is. Not as spectacular as the one before us, but more than adequate. A coffin fit for royalty."

Bak eyed the officer thoughtfully. "Why do you tell me this? You've made no secret of the fact that you don't trust me. Are you hoping I'll pass word of this outrage to the capital?"

"You apparently believe I could, without a qualm, slay five innocent people to repay Djehuty for an -incident from the past. Now tell me, Lieutenant, why would I slay them for a long-past offense, and plan to slay Djehuty as well, when each day that goes by the swine gives me greater reason to wish him alone a victim of his own transgressions?"

So great was the officer's anger, Bak could feel it in the air. Antef had made a point, he thought, a good point.

* * *

Bak and Psuro shoved the skiff across the strip of rich black earth. The flat-bottomed hull tore away the dry and cracking surface, revealing soil still damp from the fallen floodwaters. The slope steepened. The vessel got away from them and slid out of control down the slick bank. Its stern struck the water with a splash, showering them. They leaped after it and waded into the river to scramble on board. Psuro took up the oars while Bak sat in the stern with the rudder. "User, you say he's called?" Bak asked.

"Yes, sir." The Medjay eased the skiff into deeper water, added, "He was a spearman back then."

"I thank the lord Amon you found him." Bak drew close a basket smelling of bread and braised meat and removed the lid. "You've done well, Psuro. I feared all who survived the storm were gone, either living in a faraway place or in the Field of Reeds."

Psuro rowed around a tiny island crowned with a single acacia. Other islands large and small abounded as far as the eye could see. The swift-flowing channels separating them, as often as not foaming over rocks hidden beneath the surface, would shrink or vanish as the water level dropped through the following months. The Medjay located a wide and smooth passage that promised to carry them north with a minimum of effort, shipped one oar, and held onto the other in case of need.

"User lives on an island near the upstream end of the rapids," he said. "He doesn't often come to Abu. I was lucky to find him at the market."

"He's a farmer now?" Bak took an elongated loaf of bread from the basket, broke off a chunk, added a slab of beef, and handed it to his companion.

"Yes, sir. ILe raises geese and sells the eggs, mostly to the crews of ships either readying their vessels for the voyage upriver or unloading products from faraway Kush for overland transport north around the rapids."

"Sounds an enterprising sort." Bak recalled the unwanted gifts, the threat they implied. His voice sharpened. "I hope you didn't tell him to meet us at our quarters."

The Medjay, his mouth full, shook his head emphatically. "I suggested Pahared's wife's house of pleasure."

Barely able to understand, Bak dug two jars of beer out of the basket and handed one over. "When?"

Psuro swallowed hard, clearing his mouth, and tipped the jar to his lips. "He turned me down flat. I explained at first why you wanted to talk to him, telling him of the murders. He saw right away how unhealthy Abu and Swenet have been for those who survived the storm, so he thought it best he not tarry. As soon as he traded his eggs for whatever necessities he came for, he set sail for home."

Bak applauded the man's common sense and understood his caution, but the delay was frustrating-and annoying. Just six days remained before Djehuty faced death. "How long must I wait to talk to him?"

"We're to meet in the morning on neutral ground. On an island south of Abu, a place where men have, for many generations, left inscriptions on the boulders so no one will forget their passage across the frontier. He wants us nowhere near his home, fearing the slayer will follow us and add him to the list of dead."

Does he think us so careless with other men's lives? Bak wondered. He quickly tamped down his irritation. After all, who could blame the man for an excess of caution?

Bak climbed out of the skiff and sent Psuro on to Swenet to find suitable objects they could exchange for User's knowledge. He stood briefly on the landingplace below the governor's villa, deciding where to go next, who to talk with, then plodded up the stairs. A small brown snake darted into a crack between rocks. A sparrow fluttered in an-overhanging acacia, chirping. About a third of the way up, a sound ... a whisper ... something ... nudged his senses and silenced the bird. He stopped, looked around, saw nothing. If not for the sparrow's continuing hush, he would have thought his imagination overactive.

He climbed on, faster, more alert. Another whisper and an arrow sped by, passing through the gap between his arm and torso, narrowly missing his ribs. He leaped off the stairway, flinging himself into the brush. The sparrow darted away. A third arrow struck the nearest step. The point snapped off; the shaft skidded across the stone and struck a spindly limb close to Bak's leg. The archer was reasonably skilled, he thought, but no expert would aim so low. Deciding a glimpse of the man worth the risk, he felt for his dagger, making sure he had it, and scrambled up the steep, rocky incline, shoulders hunched, head down, shielded by leaves that showered around him. Thin branches grabbed his hair and tore at his arms and legs. Another arrow sped by, striking the slender trunk of a tree. He thought he heard yet another, speeding through the branches whipping the air behind him.