"I can't just walk away and leave them," Khawet said. "Why not?" Bak eyed the five nearly naked men spread across the roof of the cattle shed, cleaning fish and laying them out to dry. "Not a man here is neglecting his duty, and they all know their tasks very well."
"Hatnofer always said that our servants would feel neglected if we didn't watch them closely."
"All men need supervision, but the more accomplished they are in their tasks, the greater distance you must maintain. If you don't trust their judgment, they grow lazy and resentful."
She flashed him a smile. "How profound you are today, Lieutenant!"
He returned the smile but offered no further comment. With a father as erratic as Djehuty and a substitute mother as difficult to please as Hatnofer, he was amazed her instincts were serving her so well. The servants seemed more aware of him than her, and certainly more wary. She was a familiar and comfortable figure, while he was a stranger who reminded them of death and a slayer still free to take another life.
Several times, ha, had surprised furtive glances from the three men sitting a few paces away surrounded by loosely woven reed baskets from which water leaked. Their task was to gut, bone, and scale the morning's catch. Another man took the cleaned fish and spread them out in the sun to dry.
A fifth crushed bones and scales and heads into a foulsmelling mess that would be worked into the soil in the garden as fertilizer.
"Alright, I'll leave these men in peace." Laughing softly, she led the way across the roof. "Have you had your midday meal? My next stop is the kitchen."
He liked the way she smiled, the delicate curve of her Ups and the twinkle in her eyes. "Each time I see you, you're either involved in some task or rushing from one to another. Do you never take time to sit and rest?"
"Not often through the day. I must admit I sleep better at night now than when I spent much of my time in idleness, letting Hatnofer have her way." She walked ahead of him down the stairs, the same flight down which Montu had fallen to his death, and strode around the corner to the open front of the shed. "I find the responsibility of running so large a household taxing and at the same time a wonderful test of my abilities. Why I never demanded my rightful place as mistress of the house, I'll never know." Her expression grew rueful. "Still, I wish she were alive and well."
Bak stayed close, determined not to let her out of his sight until he learned what she knew of the housekeeper. "I'd've thought that tending to your father's needs was a full-time task."
"Only because I allowed him to make it so. Now I feel I serve him best by managing his household. Besides, he's shifted much of the load to Amonhotep's shoulders. Not merely the errands I ran, but the task of keeping him safe as well."
"Your father's afraid, and so he should be."
"I know. I sometimes awake in the night and imagine him in his bedchamber, too fearful to sleep, too frightened to get the rest he needs." She paused to look into the shed, where three milk cows with calves were tethered to stones sunk into the soil. Fresh hay spilled from their mangers and covered the floor of a pen in which a half dozen milk goats lingered. "He told me this morning you've moved out of your quarters in Abu. Too far away, should he need you."
"He has no immediate cause for worry." Bak followed her across the sunny yard. "If I'm right about the slayer's pattern-and I believe I am-he won't strike again for four more days. A lot can happen in so short a time, I know, but for the present, he remains far out of my grasp. I need help, your help."
"My father's very angry with you." She stopped at the gate and turned to face him "He says you're prying into the past, reopening wounds that long ago healed."
Bak looked into dark, worried eyes, a face as delicate and vulnerable as that of a new-born lamb. "Prying into the past? Yes. Reopening healed wounds? For that, he must blame another man. The slayer."
She bit her lip. "Are you sure the tie that binds all those who've been slain is that dreadful tempest which took so many innocent lives five years ago?"
"I've trod several paths, none as long and convolutedor as promising-as the one pointing to the storm." "Since first I talked with you about Hatnofer, I've searched my heart time and time again, trying to recall some connection. I've found none."
She swung away, shoved the gate open, and walked on, heading toward the kitchen. Three naked and very dirty toddlers played outside the door, pushing wooden animals over mounds and ridges they had formed in the sand. Even from a distance, they smelled sour, in dire need of a dunking in the river.
Bak latched the gate and hastened to catch up. "I've been told she was close to a sergeant named Min, the man who saved Djehuty's life."
Khawet gave him a quick, rather surprised look. "Sergeant "Surely you remember him."
"As you say, he saved my father's life." She stopped a dozen paces from the children, frowned. "I vaguely recall something…" Her brow cleared. "Yes, I did hear a rumor linking Hatnofer to him. I thought it best never to mention it to her. In fact, I wasn't sure the tale was true."
"She never confided in you? Don't women usually share their conquests with those closest to them?"
"She thought me too young and unworldly, I guess." Khawet's smile was wry. "I was close on twenty years then, no longer untouched or innocent, but she kept me forever in her heart as a babe."
"I was told Min sailed north a few days after the storm. If he and Hatnofer were close, why would she not go with him?
She shrugged. "Perhaps she didn't care enough."
"Few women would throw away the opportunity of having a home and family of her own."
"This was her home." Khawet's voice carried a hint of criticism, as if no other place would serve as well and he should have recognized the fact. "She'd spent all her life on our estate in Nubt or in this villa in Abu. My father was a brother to her and I a daughter. Why would she give up so much to travel far away, maybe never again to see us?"
Bak was surprised Khawet was so insular. As the daughter of a provincial governor, she must have journeyed to Waset and Mennufer. Djehuty would have wanted his daughter to rub shoulders with the children of other nobility, as he had done when he was a youth. Yet here she was, a mature woman with a husband of her own, behaving as if no place but Abu would do, no other form of life but this.
Now that he knew her better, now that he had seen her smile and tease, she seemed much more attractive than she had initially, more appealing by far. But to have such a blind spot was a flaw few men of means or intellect could condone. Ineni perhaps, a man who loved the land above all else, but would he thrive in the governor's villa? Would he want to stand at the head of the province, given the opportunity? Would Khawet like him any better if he occupied the seat of power?
"Do you have any idea what Djehuty has asked of us?" Simut demanded. "He knew I'd sent as many men north to Nubt as I could spare-they're needed in the fields at this time of year, documenting land use, seeds sown, young animals dropped. And still he demands a detailed inventory. Outrageous!"
Bak eyed the two rows of men seated on the floor, shards piled beside them, scrolls spread open on their laps, reed pens scratching across the surface. None sneaked curious glances, as they had the last time he had come into the scribal office. They were too busy turning rough counts into an official report.
He kept his voice low, confidential. "I understand he means to disinherit Ineni."
"Ridiculous! As I pointed out when he told me." The short, stout chief scribe shook his head in disgust. "The estate in Nubt thrives because of that young man. Without him, it would founder."
"Some believed Hatnofer equally indispensable."
"In that case we erred, and I thank the lord Khnum that Khawet has proven us wrong. The estate in Nubt is quite another matter. Djehuty's lost the power of rational thought."
"How much of his wealth is derived from his land?" Bak asked.
Simut flung him a disdainful look. "I'm not at liberty to divulge information of so private a nature, Lieutenant. You should know better than to ask."
If Djehuty was like many provincial governors, his land was his heritage, just as his position was, but the bounty from his fields need not contribute to any great extent to his wealth. He was, first and foremost, entitled to a portion of the taxes collected from all who lived within his domain. The province was far from being the most fertile in Kemet, but its position,(r)n the border between Kemet and Wawat more than compensated for the scarcity of arable land: he was also allowed a share of the tolls paid by traders passing through Abu.
Though the estate's contribution to Djehuty's well-being would likely be small when compared to his income from taxes and tolls, to Ineni, the man who worked the land, the drain of produce and animals no doubt seemed exorbitant. Simut glanced at the scribes toiling before him, pursed his lips, rose to his feet. "You wish to look at a personal record, you said."
Bak had an idea Simut would have given him a hint if they had been alone, but with so many men in the room, so many sharp ears, he would divulge nothing. "Sergeant Min. He served in the garrison here, in what capacity I don't know. He survived the sandstorm but left Abu soon after."
SiYnut frowned, thinking. "Hmmm. The name's familiar, but I don't know why."
"He was the one who saved Djehuty's life."
"Was he?" The chief scribe shrugged, indicating his failure to remember, and walked into the records room.
Bak followed as far as the door. "I know how proud Djehuty is that he's one of a long line of men who've governed this province. Until now, until he decided to disinherit Ineni, he must've bent a knee daily before the lord Khnum, praying his son would take his seat, and his son's son after him. On through eternity."
Simut chuckled. "He did for a fact.."
The decision, then, was serious, one not lightly made. Was Ineni's refusal to get rid of the horses so important to Djehuty that he would end his family's long tenure'as provincial governors? Or had he concluded for some reason that his adopted son was the man who wanted him dead? Or did he believe he could convince his daughter to divorce her husband and wed another, a nobleman, perhaps, who might give him a grandson worthy of his ancestors?
Simut pulled a reddish jar from the wooden frame, broke the plug that sealed it shut, and sorted through the documents. "Ah, here it is. Min. Sergeant of a company of spearmen."
Bak hastened to intercept him, to herd him toward the single lamp that'burned at chest level atop a tall reed tripod at the back of the room, where privacy reigned. "Should Djehuty die today, would Ineni petition our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, to take his father's seat as governor?"
"He'd accept the task if she gave it to him. What choice would he have? He wouldn't seek it. He wants nothing more than to walk the fields of that estate in Nubt." Simut chuckled, but with a minimum of humor. "Ironic, isn't it? Djehuty adopted a son to succeed him and carry on the family line, but all the prayers in the world could neither give Khawet a child nor mold Ineni in his own image."
For the latter, all who dwell in the province must be thanking the lord Khnum, Bak thought.
"Unfortunately," Simut went on, "not another man in Abu is well enough known in the capital to get a nod from — the queen." His expression turned gloomy, and he shook his head. "No, if Ineni is disinherited, our next governor will be a stranger, one who knows nothing of this province and its needs."
"Does Djehuty?" Bak asked.
Simut gave him a wry smile. "Lieutenant Amonhotep does. As you saw for yourself this morning."
Bak grinned. He had never expected to like this irascible little man, but he found himself warming to him. Then he chided himself for a fool. He had begun to like or respect every man on the governor's staff, men he had to consider as possible slayers. The only one he could not warm up to was the governor himself, the man he must keep alive.
The chief scribe broke the seal with his thumbnail, released the string and unrolled the scroll, and held it close to the lamp. Aloud he said, "Min came as a young man from Wawat, I see, the fortress of Kubban. Son of a soldier." His finger moved slowly down the right-hand edge of the column. "Hmmm. Rose through the ranks. Attained the level of sergeant."
Bak craned his neck, trying without success to read the document for himself. "Does it say anything about his surviving the storm?"
Simut unrolled the scroll a bit farther, adjusted it so he could see better, and his eyes darted to the top of the next column and downward. "Hmmm, here we are. Caught in a sandstorm. Returned from the desert more dead than alive.
Saved his commanding officer's life. Recommended for the gold of honor for… Yes, for behaving in an exemplary manner."
"Where've I heard that before?" Bak asked in a dry voice. The statement was oft used, worn and frayed with age, a way of saying nothing when something needed to be said. "Did he ever get the fly?" The golden fly was a coveted award given to soldiers who distinguished themselves above all others.
"I see nothing here."
"Maybe he received it after he left Abu." Bak tried again to read the document, but Simut held the scroll closer to the lamp, not about to lose the upper hand. "What does it say of his speedy transfer north?"
The chief scribe raised an eyebrow at this fresh information and the added cynicism. He unrolled another segment of scroll, revealing a new and very short column. "Reassigned to the garrison at Mennufer." He glanced at Bak. "There the record ends."
"Mennufer." Bak scowled. "I, too, served there five years ago, but as a charioteer, not an infantryman. We seldom crossed paths. Usually only on the practice field, and in such great numbers we didn't know names or recognize individual faces."
Simut eyed the scroll, thinking back in time. "I vaguely remember a Sergeant Min. Not an especially admirable individual, I seem to recall, but no worse than some I've met." He rolled the document into a tight, neat cylinder and retied the string around it. "If you tell me what you wish to learn…"
"I've heard he and Hatnofer were close, and I'm trying to prove the rumor true or false."
"If he was the man I remember, he used to hang around this villa more than his duties in the garrison warranted. Not because of her, I'd've thought. There was another man, one who came often to see Djehuty, a Sergeant Senmut…" "The man who was slain."
Simut nodded. "The pair were close. Too close, if you ask me. I heard they often caroused together, played throwsticks and knucklebones, won more than they should in games supposedly honest. However, Senmut was a favorite of Djehuty-a sentiment well beyond my understandingso I said nothing." Deep in thought, he tapped the scroll on a leg of the tripod supporting the lamp. "If Min came also to see Hatnofer, I never noticed."
Bak let out a long, disappointed sigh. Another dead end. Who could he turn to next? He needed Nofery, a skilled collector of gossip. But she was ten days' journey to the south, too far away to summon. Who, of all the people he had talked with since coming to Abu, would be the most likely to have his ear to the wind, gathering whispers as a hearing ear gathered prayers?
Bak found the guard Kames seated in the shade on the uppermost step of the family shrine in front of Nebmose's villa, head and shoulders supported by a column, mouth open, snoring. The wiry guard had been there for some time. Birds chirped overhead, so accustomed to the raucous noise he made that they had grown indifferent. Frogs croaked in the small, shallow pool, trying to compete. His spear lay on the ground, and a mother duck and her young waddled back and forth across the shaft, tearing apart the remains of a loaf of bread he had dropped near his feet.
Bak walked close. Quacking a warning, the duck led her chicks to the far side of the pool. The frogs grew silent. He peered inside the small building. As before, a fresh offering of flowers lay at the base of the ancestor bust. Whoever tended the shrine was faithful indeed.
He tossed the remains of the bread to the ducks, picked up the spear, and frowned at the sleeping man. Kames continued to snore. With guards like this, he thought, any number of outsiders could slip within the walls and slay five people. This one needed a lesson he would not soon forget.
Bak turned the spear around, point backward, and placed the butt end of the shaft under Kames's chin. Abruptly he lifted it, jerking the guard's head up, waking him with a start.
"Wha…?" Kames's eyes focused on the shaft, widened in terror, darted to Bak's face. "Sir!" He pulled his legs close, meaning to scramble to his feet, but dared not rise.
Bak kept his head pinned against the column. "Five people have been slain and this is the way you stand guard? What kind of man are you? One who naps while others die?"
"Sir." Kames tried to swallow, moaned. "I never sleep on duty, sir. Never!"
"Has it not occurred to you that the slayer might find you with your eyes closed and you, too, might forfeit your life?" "Please, sir. This is the first time. I swear it!"
Bak did not believe him for a moment, but he had come for information, not to see him punished for idleness. He withdrew the shaft from beneath the guard's chin. "When first I met you, Kames, I thought you a man of good sense. I searched you out to talk, not to accuse you of neglecting your duty."
The guard's face paled as the implied threat struck home. He scooted forward, well away from the column. "I've already told you all I know, sir."
"Where's your partner, Nenu?"
"He went to Lieutenant Amonhotep, thinking to gain advantage for himself by complaining about me." Kames stared at his clasped hands, his expression aggrieved. "He told the aide that I amble around like a cow in a pasture, paying no heed to my surroundings, thinking only of food and rest. Now, while I patrol this empty villa, he comes and goes, running errands for those of lofty status who toil for the governor."
"Who told you this?" Bak demanded. "Not Amonhotep, surely!" _.
"Nenu. He had to brag." Kames looked up at Bak, worry clouding his face. "Do you think I'll be punished on his sayso alone?"
Bak had Been for himself how indolent Kames was, but the truth was not always useful. "I see you as a man who's very much aware, one who watches and listens but keeps to himself all he sees and hears."
The guard's chest swelled at the praise. "Oh, I don't know about that, sir," he said, feigning modesty.
Bak sat down on the step beside him, a friendly companion, not a police officer. "Kames, I'm in need of information about a Sergeant Min. Have you ever heard the name?" "Not that I recall, sir."
"He was one who survived the storm we spoke of the other day. He saved Governor Djehuty's life."
"Oh, him!" Karnes clapped a hand to his forehead, grinned. "Now I know who you mean. Sergeant Min!" Bak had a feeling he should have brought along a couple jars of beer, one to jog Karnes's memory and the other to foster patience within himself. "He's been gone nearly five years, but his memory must live on. What've you heard about him?"
"I never knew him. I toiled in Nubt, guarding the governor's estate, until a year or so after he left. Not until I came to Abu did I hear him mentioned, and then not often. Few men dared speak of anyone connected to the storm when Sergeant Senmut was alive."
"They were friends, I've been told."
"They drank and wagered together, not always to the benefit of those who shared their good time. And I once overheard someone say…" The guard glanced around, assuring himself he and Bak were alone.".. they shared a secret about the governor."
Bak had trouble keeping his voice casual, his body relaxed. "What kind of secret, Kames?"
"Will you talk to Lieutenant Amonhotep for me, telling him Nenu lied?" The guard stared at his clasped hands, pretending nonchalance.
Bak wanted t take him by the neck and shake him. This was blackmail, plain and simple. "I have a feeling the lieutenant's already suspicious of the tale. Why else has he said nothing to you? If that's the case, it's best I remain apart and you go on with your task in as diligent a manner as you know how."
"But sir!"
Bak raised a hand, demanding silence. "If you find yourself in trouble, send for me. I'll do what I can-but only if you help me here and now."
Trying to look suitably chastened, but with a smirk slipping through, Kames leaned close and lowered his voice to a murmur. "The man who spoke, one I'd never seen before and have never seen since, said he knew for a fact that the governor panicked during the storm and Min saved him from himself. I heard later, from men whispering in the barracks, that they came back from the desert far ahead of the other survivors: Min, the governor, and a donkey carrying food and water. They were burned by the sun and tired, but neither man was hungry or thirsty."
"I wonder how great an effort they made to find others who might've survived?" Bak spoke more to himself than to the guard.
Kames gave him a knowing look, a nod of agreement. "They say Min was sent away so he couldn't make trouble in the garrison, but as a man of questionable character, would he not demand wealth or a lofty position in exchange for silence?"
Bak thought of Hatnofer, a woman reputed to be close to Min. Did he leave her behind as unwanted baggage and travel to Mennufer alone? Or did someone slay him to keep him quiet, leaving her to await a summons he could never give?
The wiry guard leaned so close their shoulders touched, and Bak could feel his warm breath on his ear. "Some say Min sailed north to a lofty position in a garrison far away. Others say he never set foot on board that ship. He was slain here, pushed down the water gauge, where the level of the floodwaters is measured."
Bak stared at the barred gate in front of the garden, trying to fit this new information into the old. As he had already concluded, Djehuty held within his heart a secret related to the sandstorm, one so shameful he would rather die than admit to it. Assuming Karnes's tale was true, he had behaved in a craven manner. If he would die rather than confess to cowardice, would he not also kill to protect his secret? He might well have taken Min's life or, more likely, have had someone else commit the foul deed for him.
What of the five recent deaths? The patterns of the slayings pointed to Djehuty as the ultimate victim, not the slayerunless he had become so afraid his secret would be divulged that his wits were addled. Unlikely, but a possibility nonetheless.
Thinking of Kames's nap and the sleeping guard he had surprised at the gatehouse a few days earlier, Bak made a quick tour of the governor's compound. He was forced to conclude that security was irresponsibly lax. One would have expected the violent death of'the sergeant of the guard, Senmut, to bring about a strict adherence to good practices, but the reverse had happened. Or, more likely, Senmut had been as negligent as they, demanding nothing more than their present behavior. The problem now lay with Amonhotep, but he was too preoccupied by Djehuty's demands to come down with a firm hand, or even to notice.
Though convinced the slayer had come from within the compound rather than outside the grounds, Bak decided he would be equally lax if he failed to make a quick and, hopefully, intimidating inspection. After warning Amonhotep of his intent, he summoned Psuro and Kasaya. For the remainder of the day, the trio went from one guard to another, demanding cleanliness of individuals and weapons, improving stance, instilling proper procedures. Planting fear in their hearts, not only of the slayer but of the hard-nosed policemen from Buhen.
Finished witl~. the inspection, Bak sent Psuro and Kasaya into Abu to pick up their evening meal from the old woman who cooked for them. They had found the food in Pahared's wife's house of pleasure filling but singularly lacking in taste and appeal, so they had retained her services. While awaiting the pair's return, he would look at the water gauge, the place where Sergeant Min was rumored to have been slain.
After observing the gatehouse from a discreet distance, he strode out the front gate of the governor's compound, confident the guard-wide awake and vigilant-would have spotted anyone occupying the nearby walls or rooftops. If the archer still lived, he would not be lying in ambush close by. He hurried along the terrace overlooking the river. The sun hung low over the western escarpment, sending shafts of gold into a pallid sky, reflected on the smooth surface of the water.
Beyond the willows, whose graceful limbs waved gently in the breeze, he reached the entrance to the thigh-high mudbrick wall built close around the rectangular mouth of the — water gauge. An ancient grapevine, its trunk thick and knobby, its vines laden with clusters of ripening grapes shaded by a profusion of leaves, draped over the left-hand wall, covering much of its inner and outer surface. A stately sycamore towered overhead. Its rustling leaves sheltered a tiny black monkey that swung from limb to limb, squeaking.
Bak stepped through the open gateway and knelt at the top of an enclosed, steeply graded, rock-hewn staircase that plunged to the river. The steps served as the gauge by which priests from the nearby mansion of the lady Satet measured annual flood levels. In the gloom below, he could see the last of the year's deluge washing the lower stairs. A pale glimmer shone through the water, either a trick of the light shining from above or the opening to the river through which floodwaters entered and retreated. The hole through which a man would be pulled by the current should he fall, or be thrown, down the steps.
He eyed the well-like structure, trying to imagine a man pushed headlong down the steep stairway, tumbling out of control; head, shoulders, back, arms, and legs pounded by the hard stone steps; broken body swallowed by the waters below. After so long a time, with at least four floods to wash away any sign of violence, he did not expect to find confirmation of Min's death. But his first glance told him how easily a man could be slain here.
He rose to his feet. With his eyes on the water gauge, his thoughts on Min, he stepped back to the opening in the wall. The monkey's chattering increased in volume and rapidity; leaves rained down as it scrambled higher into the sycamore. Bak glanced up, wondering what had frightened it.
Just as he glimpsed the creature, something struck him hard on the back, forcing the air from his lungs, making him stumble forward. His foot hit the edge of the uppermost step and he lost his balance. He reached out, trying to save himself. His right hand slid over the rim of the open shaft and down the rough stone wall, scraping away a layer of skin. Leaves rushed through the fingers of his left hand, something hard scratched his wrist, the grapevine, and he grabbed. The vine dipped beneath his, weight. A long section tore away from the mudbrick wall above and flung him out over the depths of the water gauge. The far end held tight to the bricks, pulling him up short. He slammed face-forward into the rough-cut stone wall.
Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up at the top of the stairs. He saw no one. He had not been pushed. He had been struck by
… What? A good-sized rock thrown from a sling, inflicting a stunning blow on his back. A soldier's weapon. A weapon used by most children in Kemet. A skill learned early in life to slay birds or small game. As long as he clung there, hanging in the open shaft high above the stairway, he was no safer than a duck or a hare caught in a hunter's net, awaiting execution.
He shifted his glance to the mass of vines above him, seeking a second secure handhold. Leaves, grape clusters, shadows cluttered his view. He could see wrist-thick stems and tendrils as thin as thread, but not the vine he clung to, or any other close enough to grasp and sturdy enough to support his weight.
Offering a tardy prayer of gratitude to the lord Amon, adding a quick plea for additional help, he shot his right hand upward. Tendrils snapped and the vine he clung to dropped further. His heart leaped upward, clogging his throat. Again the far end held and stopped him with a jolt. Pain flared in his left shoulder, taking his breath away. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, stretched his right arm high, and felt around among the leaves and tendrils. His fingertips touched rough bark. He stretched higher, sharpening the pain. A torn muscle, he suspected. He found a good-sized vine. His fingers curled around it, but he could not reach high enough to grasp it. Sweat popped out on his forehead, his upper lip. The agony was intense, his fear of falling worse.
Desperate to relieve the weight on his left arm, his back prickling with vulnerability, he shook off his sandals and probed for a foothold. The added movement kindled the fire in his shoulder, making it blaze. Just as he was certain he could hang on no longer, he located a crack between the rocks. Shifting much of his weight to the one foot, he managed to raise himself high enough to catch the vine with his free right hand.
He held on tight with both hands, swallowed hard, kept as much weight off his left arm and shoulder as possible. He looked up again at the mouth of the water gauge. As before, no one was there. His assailant must believe him dead-or was biding his time.
Aware of how exposed he was to attack, how shaky, how fast pain could further sap his strength, he knew he had to move. He had to shift his body toward the mouth of the water gauge, moving to his left a little at a time. He had to move now.
Praying the vine would continue to support his weight, praying that if it broke he would somehow survive, he loosened his grip, inched his left hand along the rough bark, caught hold. He found a new foothold with no trouble. Shifting the right hand was torture, the burning in his shoulder dreadful with much of his weight hanging from his left hand. When he once again settled into place, both hands firm around the vine, he figured he had moved at least two palm widths closer to safety. How much farther did he have to go? He estimated the distance, considered his height, judged where he had to be before he could drop onto the steps. Slightly more than three cubits, he concluded, twenty-one or — two palm widths. Not far at all, yet an alarming distance.
He forced himself to move on, inching across the rough wall, his shoulder aflame, skinned arm stinging, hands slippery with sweat. His concentration was total. Move one hand, find a fresh toehold, move the other hand. He forgot the man who had assaulted him, the stairs beneath him, the darkening wedge of sky above him. He ignored his weariness and thirst. He tolerated his aching muscles and scraped knuckles. He endured the fire in his shoulder.
After endless torment, his lead foot brushed something cold and hard He looked down, startled. A step. In his trance-like state, he had gone farther than he had to. With soaring spirits, he planted both feet on the stone and let go of the vine. His arms were so numb he could hardly feel them. Weak from effort and tension, wobbly from exhaustion, he dragged himself on hands and knees up the steep stairway.
At the top, he peered over the edge. The monkey sat on the wall, holding a bunch of grapes, eating the ripe fruit and flinging away the green. It skittered well out of his reach and scolded him, but showed no special terror. Nor did it show any interest in the surrounding landscape. Fairly certain they were alone, Bak hauled himself on up and sat, his back to the wall, inside the enclosure near the opening. He lowered his face into his dirty, scratched hands and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.