This was the first of eight similar way stations where the di vine triad would rest on their daylong journey from Ipet-isut to Ipet-resyt.
The Medjays, though relaxed while they awaited their gods, stood tall and straight and proud. They wore their best white kilts and held black cowhide shields so well brushed they glistened. Spearpoints, the bronze pendants hanging from their necks, the wide bronze bands that formed their armlets and anklets were polished to a high sheen.
Amonked gave an unassuming smile. “If a man has a bit of influence and can use it for a good cause, why shouldn’t he?”
He was rather plump, of medium height, and his age somewhere in the mid-thirties, but he looked older. He wore an ankle-length kilt made of fine linen, an elegant broad beaded collar, and matching bracelets. The short wig cover ing his thinning hair gleamed in the sunlight, testifying to the fact that it was made of real human hair.
“Shouldn’t you be in the mansion of the lord Amon, sir?” asked Sergeant Pashenuro. “Are you not to be a part of the procession?” The short, broad sergeant, second among the
Medjays to Imsiba, had come to know Amonked several months earlier.
“I’m on my way to Ipet-isut now, but I’m in no hurry. I’m not serving as a priest this season, so I can’t go into the inner chambers, nor can I help carry one of the gods’ barques.”
Amonked took a square of linen from his belt and patted away beads of sweat on his face, taking care to avoid the black galena painted around his eyes. “I saw no reason to stand in the outer court for an hour or more, waiting, while our sovereigns make offerings and pledge obeisance to their godly father.”
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that, even on an occasion as important as this, ordinary sol diers and police were not expected to wear wigs and large amounts of jewelry. The heat was close to intolerable and would worsen as the day went on. “Must you join the pro cession as it leaves Ipet-isut? Can you not wait here and join your lofty peers when they reach this sanctuary?”
Amonked smiled. “A most thoughtful suggestion, Lieu tenant, one I accept with gratitude.”
Bak exchanged a glance with Pashenuro, who hurried be hind the sanctuary and returned with a folding camp stool, one of several brought for use by Maatkare Hatshepsut,
Menkheperre Thutmose, and the senior priests while the deities rested.
Ignoring the curious glances of the spectators standing on the opposite side of the processional way, Amonked settled himself on the stool. After inquiring about Bak’s father, a physician who dwelt across the river in western Waset, he talked of the southern frontier and the fortresses along the
Belly of Stones, of the people he had met several months earlier. He played no favorites, speaking with officer, ser geants, and ordinary policemen with identical good humor and respect.
When the gossip faltered, Bak asked, “Have you heard anything of Maruwa, the man we found slain at the harbor last week?” He knew Amonked would have no official reason to be involved, but he also knew the Storekeeper of Amon was one of the best-informed men in the southern capital.
“Nothing.” Amonked lifted the edge of his wig and ran the square of linen beneath it. “According to the harbormas ter, Lieutenant Karoya has diligently questioned every man on Captain Antef’s ship and anyone else he could find who might’ve seen or heard anything out of order. Either all who were near the vessel were blind and deaf, or the slayer took care not to be noticed.”
“The more time Karoya allows to go by, the less likely he is to snare the wretched criminal.”
“Evidently he’s well aware of the truism.”
Bak smiled at the gentle reminder that he had verged on pedantry. “He may already be too late. If the slayer is a man of Hatti, he may well be on his way to his homeland.”
“Karoya shares your fear. He claims never to have reached so dead a dead end so early in an investigation.”
“He believes, then, that Maruwa was slain for a political reason?”
“So far he’s found no sign that the merchant was the least bit interested in politics. But he wouldn’t, would he, if
Maruwa was some kind of spy?”
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “Spy? Where did that idea come from?”
Amonked shrugged. “I’m not sure. Karoya perhaps?”
“I doubt he’s the kind of man to garb another man in bright, sensational colors without due consideration-or some kind of proof. I admit I don’t know him well, but he seemed far too cautious, too sensible. As is Mai. No, I’d look somewhere else for the source of that tale.”
The sharp blast of a distant trumpet pierced the air, an nouncing the lord Amon’s departure from his earthly home.
All eyes turned north toward Ipet-isut, and the many voices grew quiet, anticipatory. Movement could be seen at the large, south-facing pylon gate being built by Maatkare Hat shepsut into the tall, crenellated wall that surrounded the sa cred precinct. About half completed, the two towers rose slightly above the lintel recently placed over the doorway.
The facades of both towers were hidden behind long, broad ramps made of mudbricks and debris up which materials were transported.
Bak spotted the glint of gold and the white kilts of several men exiting the distant gate, holding high the royal stan dards. Musicians followed, the beat of their drums and the harsher sounds of sistra and metal clappers setting the slow, measured pace of the procession. A dozen or more priests came next, some perfuming the air with incense while the rest purified the way with water or milk. A breath of air stirred the long red pennants mounted atop tall flagpoles clamped to the front of Ipet-isut’s entrance pylon, much of which was concealed behind the enclosure wall. The hush broke and voices rose in expectation.
Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose walked through the gate side by side. Bak noted the glitter of sun light on gold, garments as white as a heron. Priests sprinkled aromatic oils on the path before them, while honored ser vants waved ostrich-feather fans over their heads. The crowd went wild, cheering the royal couple whose task it was to stave off chaos and preserve the stability of the land.
“Ah, yes.” Amonked sighed. “Now the long day has truly begun.”
The music grew louder, fueling the spectators’ excite ment. A dozen priests followed their sovereigns, golden cen sors glittering through clouds of incense, crystal drops of water flung from shining lustration vessels to purify the earth over which the greatest of the gods would be carried.
The lord Amon appeared in the gateway, enclosed within his golden shrine, which stood on a golden barque carried high on the shoulders of priests. The long arms of the lord
Re reached out, touching the shrine, blinding the eyes of all who glimpsed its far-off radiance.
The procession slowly approached the sanctuary.
Amonked rose to his feet and, taking the stool with him, stepped off to the side, out of the way. Bak ordered his men to stand at rigid attention, checked to be sure all was as it should be, and pivoted to face the processional way, stand ing as stiff and straight as they.
Following the standard-bearers, the musicians, the priests,
Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose walked up the processional way in all their regal majesty. The regent who had made herself a sovereign wore a long white shift, multicolored broad collar and bracelets, and a tall white cone-shaped crown with plumes rising to either side above horizontal ram’s horns and the sacred cobra over her brow.
She carried the crook and the flail in one hand, the sign of life in the other. She looked neither to right nor left. Too far away to see well, Bak imagined her face set, an emotionless mask.
Beside her, walking with a youthful spring in his step, was Menkheperre Thutmose. The young man wore the short kilt of a soldier, which displayed to perfection the hard mus cles of his well-formed body. His jewelry was similar to that of his co-ruler. He wore a blue flanged helmetlike crown adorned with gold disks. The royal cobra rose over his brow, and he carried the crook and the flail and the sign of life.