Maatkare Hatshepsut or Menkheperre Thutmose, but might well have favored one over the other.
“Did he ever express a preference between our sovereign and her nephew?” The young man who shares the throne but not the power, Bak added to himself. A young man wise enough to come to Waset and participate with his aunt in the all-important Opet rituals, thereby reminding those who should one day bow before him that he was the offspring of the lord Amon. Best not to air those thoughts while within the confines of the royal residence.
“He didn’t seem to care which of the two ruled our land.
He told me once he thought them both capable, a high com pliment from a man as able as he was.” The commander laughed. “Oh, he was puzzled by the fact that Maatkare Hat shepsut allows Thutmose to live. Which is understandable.
Any man who assumes the throne in Hatti slays everyone who might have the least excuse to wrest the power from him. A man born and reared there would expect the same of us.”
Bak chose not to mention that he had heard men of
Kemet, especially soldiers on the southern frontier, express the same puzzlement. “Did he ever give any indication that he might’ve been involved in the politics of his homeland?”
“None whatsoever.” A horse screamed somewhere be yond a block of storage magazines. Minnakht raised his head, listening. When no further sound was heard, he smiled ruefully. “A couple of young stallions have been fighting.
We decided to geld them.”
Bak returned a sympathetic smile. Increasing a herd of fine horses through breeding was as important, if not more so, than importing animals from other lands to enhance the royal herd. “So you believe Maruwa held no interest in politics.”
“He was a sensible man, Lieutenant. He’d not have been allowed to export horses from Hatti or import them here if anyone in power had had the least suspicion he dabbled in politics, theirs or ours. I’d wager our sovereign’s favorite chariot team that he stayed well clear.”
Far too rash a wager to dismiss lightly the commander’s conviction, Bak thought.
Minnakht eyed him speculatively. “Have you heard other wise?”
“One man suggested the possibility. I suspect he threw it out because it was the first reason he could think of for the slaying.”
“A loose tongue,” the commander said scornfully. “Bah!”
“Did Maruwa ever mention knowing anyone who lives or toils in the sacred precinct of the lord Amon?”
Minnakht laughed. “What would a Hittite merchant deal ing in horses have to do with piety and priests?” He noticed the look on Bak’s face; the laughter faded to a wry smile. “I see my question is not new to you.”
“I’ve asked it of myself, yes. More than once.” Realizing an explanation was in order, Bak told the commander of
Woserhet’s death and of Meryamon’s. “You see why I’ve come today.”
“I’ve been wondering. I’d been told the harbor patrol was investigating Maruwa’s death and now here you are.
Amonked’s friend. The man from Buhen who laid hands on the malign spirit at Djeser Djeseru. A considerable step up from a simple harbor patrol officer.”
“Lieutenant Karoya is a good man, sir.”
“I’m certain he is.” Minnakht glanced at the man with the yoke, returning to the well with empty jars. “Maruwa had a woman here in Waset. Has anyone told you of her?”
“Someone mentioned a concubine, but I wasn’t sure she’d remained a part of his life.”
“I believe he was very fond of her. He may’ve confided in her.”
Several men came out the door, carrying baskets of manure-laced straw, and passed through a gate at the far end of the portico. The waste, Bak assumed, would be saved for use as fertilizer in the gardens within the royal compound.
“Can you tell me where I can find her?” he asked.
The commander shook his head. “I don’t know her name or where she dwells, but Sergeant Khereuf may. He oversees the training of all our horses. He and Maruwa became quite friendly.”
“I was proud to count Maruwa among my friends.”
Sergeant Khereuf, a tall, sturdy man of middle years, clutched the rope halter of a young white stallion and ran his hand down its long nose. The animal trembled at his touch, but made no attempt to break away. “I doubt I’ll ever meet another man who knows horses like he did.”
Bak walked around the stallion, examining its slender legs, sturdy neck, and muscular body. Its coat was damp from a long, hard run, and it needed to be cooled down and dried off. “Who’ll bring horses to Kemet now?”
“The lord Amon only knows!” Startled by the vehemence in the sergeant’s voice, the horse jerked backward. Other than tightening his hold on the halter, Khereuf gave no sign that he noticed.
“Should you not walk that stallion?” Bak asked.
A look of approval touched the sergeant’s face, a hint of surprise that a police officer would recognize the animal’s need. As he led the horse to a well-worn path shaded by date palms that lined the rear wall of the royal compound, he asked, “You’ve spent time with horses, sir?”
“I once was a chariotry officer, a lieutenant in the regi ment of Amon.”
Khereuf was openly impressed, and any reticence he might have had about speaking to a police officer vanished.
“What do you wish to know, sir? I’ll help you all I can. I liked Maruwa. I want to see his slayer punished.”
“Other than horses, what did the two of you talk about?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Not much of anything, I guess.”
Bak smothered an oath. He had met men like Khereuf in the garrison stables, men who could converse better with horses than with their fellows. But since Maruwa had come from a far-off land, perhaps he had given birth to a wider in terest. “Did he speak of the land of Hatti?”
“Oh. Well, yes. He told me of the mountains, the vast plains, and hills covered with trees.” Khereuf’s step faltered, he gave Bak an amazed look. “Can you imagine, sir? Trees everywhere you look?” Shaking his head in wonder, he walked on.
“What else did he speak of?”
Khereuf said nothing, gathering his thoughts, then the words overflowed. “He told me of the village where he was born and the city where he made his home. He told me of his travels and the many wondrous things he’d seen. Rivers that flow in the wrong direction, from north to south, and moun tains reaching high into the clouds. Frequent rainstorms where the gods throw fire and shake the earth with noise, where in the cold months, rain turns solid and white and covers the land.”
Bak did not smile at the sergeant’s awe, for he, too, had trouble imagining such wonders. From the first time he had heard of them, he had hoped one day he would see them for himself. “Did he dwell in the capital? In Hattusa?”
Spotting a man ahead approaching with a big bay geld ing, Khereuf led the stallion off the path, onto the damp earth between the trees. “No, sir. He kept his wife and fam ily in a place called Nesa. Many days’ walk from the capital, he told me.”
“Did he go often to Hattusa?”
“Not unless he had to. He disliked the endless quest for power he found there, preferring instead a simpler life.”
Bak fervently wished the sergeant was more garrulous.
“Why did he go to the capital? To get passes and other doc uments allowing him to travel and trade?” He paused, giv ing Khereuf time to nod. “I suppose he met men of wealth there, men who felt the need to be close to the seat of power.”
“Yes, sir. Those who had horses fine enough to bring to
Kemet, at any rate.”
The gelding neared them and whinnied a greeting to the stallion, which danced nervously in response. The man nod ded to Khereuf, eyed Bak with open curiosity, and led his charge on by.
“You said he disliked the endless quest for power in Hat tusa,” Bak said, returning to the path. “Does that mean he stayed well clear of Hittite politics?”
The sergeant thought over the question and nodded. “He once told me he valued his life and the lives of his family far too much to play with fire, and he’d toiled too long and hard to allow all he’d earned through the years to fall into the cof fers of the king.”