“Zuwapi?” Pahure drew the basket close, sorted through the loaves of bread, finally selected one with sesame seeds dotting the crust. “One would think I’d recall a name that rolls so harshly off the tongue.”
Was that a yes or a no? Bak wondered. “Among other things, he deals in luxury items: fine linen, bronze vessels, aromatic oils. Goods exported from Kemet for trade in northern lands. Objects one would sorely miss when dwelling in a strange and distant city.”
“Ah, yes,” the steward smiled. “Small items for the ladies.
I several times purchased from him linens and perfumes for mistresses Taharet and Meret. Items not easy to find in Hat tusa. He was a godsend, I tell you.”
Gratified at having finally received an answer, and a posi tive one at that, Bak asked, “Can you describe him?”
Pahure seemed surprised by the question. “He’s very ordi nary, very much a Hittite.”
“Is he tall or short?” Bak asked, trying not to show his ir ritation with so vague a response. “Does he have any special features that would make him stand out from all other men?”
“None that I remember.”
Bak felt like a man trying to knock a hole in granite with a wedge of cheese. “Did anything happen when you dealt with him, or have you heard anything about him, that might lead you to believe he’s less than honest?”
“He was a sharp trader, one who demanded full value and more.” Pahure’s laugh exuded self-satisfaction. “But so am
I. I always came out ahead in our dealings.”
Bak allowed the steward a stingy smile. “Do you believe the charge true that someone in your household became em broiled in the affairs of the land of Hatti?”
“I can’t imagine any of us-or anyone else, for that mat ter-trying to cause dissension in that wretched land. Their royalty and nobility make enough trouble for themselves.”
Pahure’s expression turned scornful. “One would have to be completely witless to interfere in the politics of a nation where punishment by death is commonplace and where a man’s family and close friends more likely than not die with him.”
Bak found Netermose on the roof of the original dwelling, seated in the shade of a sturdy pavilion. Bushy trees growing in pots formed a screen of sorts, partly concealing several small granaries and a far less elegant shelter containing a loom, grindstones, brazier, and water jars. Additional potted trees lined the edge of the roof facing the river. Reed mats covered the floor beneath the pavilion, and thick pillows had been strewn around for seating. The aide sat on one, study ing rows of columns on a long roll of papyrus. Four slick haired brindle puppies played around him.
“I knew Maruwa well,” Netermose said, motioning Bak to a pillow. “When Pentu told us of his death… Well, suffice it to say, I felt as if I’d lost a friend.”
Bak was not surprised by the admission. He had noticed the dismay on the aide’s face when the governor had broken the news.
“I’m not much of a man of action, Lieutenant, but should you need help in snaring his slayer, I’ll do what I can.”
“At the moment, I need nothing but information.” Bak was again struck by the man’s advanced age and wondered what had placed him at Pentu’s beck and call. “How long ago did you meet him?”
“When first we went to Hattusa. He came for a travel pass.” Netermose rolled up the scroll, laid it beside the pil low on which he sat, and handed Bak a jar of beer. “When he learned I was reared on Pentu’s family’s country estate and that I sorely missed the company of animals, he invited me to go to his stable and look at the horses he meant to bring to
Kemet. The invitation was open, so I went often. I saw him almost daily each time he came through Hattusa.”
Netermose, then, had probably come from a long line of servants of Pentu’s family. He and the governor had un doubtedly played together as children, learned to read and write together as they grew to manhood, but always one the servant, the other the master. “He kept the horses in the cap ital and not at his home in Nesa?”
A puppy whimpered, trying to escape from a more sturdy brother, who had caught its ear in his mouth and was tugging at it. Netermose gently separated the two. “Has no one told you how he handled his business?”
“I assumed he collected horses from all over the land of
Hatti and stabled them where he dwelt, where men he trusted could care for them while he went off to trade for others.”
“He preferred to limit the distances the animals had to travel, so he kept four stables along the route between the capital and the Great Green Sea. Those horses he got from the north, he kept at Hattusa, those from farther south at
Nesa. He had another stable midway between there and the port city of Ugarit, where he kept a fourth stable. As for men he could trust, his wife had four brothers. Each managed a stable, tending to the animals and assuring their safety.”
A sensible arrangement, Bak thought. “Did you ever meet him after your return to Kemet?”
“I’d hoped I would, but our paths took different direc tions. He knew we dwelt in Tjeny, and the cargo ships carry ing his horses had to have passed us by, but he never stopped.” Netermose scratched the head of one of the pup pies. “I guess he couldn’t convince the ship’s master to take the time.”
“Or he believed he’d be unwelcome. After all, he was the man who brought word to Kemet that someone in Pentu’s household was causing trouble in the land of Hatti.”
Looking unhappy, Netermose gave the puppy a gentle shove, pushing it toward its brothers, and folded his hands in his lap. “So Pentu told us when he learned of the reason for our recall.”
“Did Maruwa ever hint that something was amiss?”
“Would that he had!”
“What would you have done?”
“I’d have warned Pentu, of course.”
A futile effort that would have been, Bak thought. “Who do you believe the traitor was?”
“The tale was untrue, I’m convinced.”
The resolute look on Netermose’s face told Bak that no less a being than the lord Amon himself would alter the aide’s conviction. Whether such certainty had come from deep within himself or had been born as a result of Pentu’s denials, he could not begin to guess.
Having followed that path to its end, he asked a question he had neglected to ask Pahure. “Pentu, like all provincial governors, must share the bounties of the land with our sov ereign and divert a portion to the lord Amon. Products gath ered yearly from his own estate and the fields of all who dwell in the province. Does he also send to the sacred precinct a share of the excess items made by the women of his household and the craftsmen who live on his personal es tate? Luxury items, to be specific.”
Netermose looked puzzled, as if unable to find the con nection between the governor’s obligation to the lord Amon and the murder of Maruwa. “We expect all who reside in the province to do so, so we can do no less.”
“Have you ever had occasion to meet any of the priests and scribes responsible for storing such items?”
“A senior priest comes each year to this house to thank
Pentu for his generosity, and other men at times come with him, but I’ve taken no interest in their exact duties.”
“I speak specifically of Woserhet, a senior scribe who toiled for the lord Amon, and of the young priest Meryamon, who dwelt and toiled in the sacred precinct.” Again he de scribed the two men.
“They may’ve come at one time or another, but I’m not especially observant. To me, one man with a pious de meanor looks much like all the others.” Netermose flung
Bak another perplexed look. “Why do you ask, sir?”
Bak glanced up at the lord Re, whose solar barque had journeyed at least two-thirds of the way across the brilliant blue sky. He had become so involved in what was beginning to seem a futile exercise that he had missed the midday meal. “What of a Hittite trader named Zuwapi? Do you know him?”
The aide frowned, further deepening the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “I may’ve heard the name, but in what context I can’t say.”