“Troop Captain!” Sennefer called. “Lieutenant!”
The tall nobleman strode toward Bak and Nebwa through the flurry of activity around the donkeys. The lead animals were already on their way, as were Nefret and Mesutu,
Pawah, Merymose, and Thaneny, the last leading Amon ked’s dog. Pashenuro nodded a farewell to the two officers and urged his string toward the outer gate.
Sennefer stepped over an odoriferous pile of manure, slapped a donkey on the flank, making it squeal, and gave the pair an amused smile. “Amonked wishes the two of you to accompany him on this morning’s inspection.”
Bak had ceased to be surprised that they were allowed to go along, but he was amazed they were actually being invited.
“What prompted that?” Nebwa asked, grinning broadly.
“All those backs turned his way as we entered the city?
The silent greeting? Troubled him, did it?”
“Perhaps he wishes to surround himself today with men of good sense.” Laughing, Sennefer swung around and walked away.
The two officers looked at each other, not quite sure what to think. Had the nobleman passed along some kind of mes sage? Or had he been making a joke at their expense?
“I’d wager a month’s rations that you were meant to die.”
Nebwa kept his voice low so the inspection party, walking down the lane ahead of them, would not hear.
“The attempt to stab me was halfhearted.” Bak also spoke softly. “You saw the wound. The dagger barely sliced through the skin.”
Nebwa eyed his friend’s left shoulder with open skepti cism. He could see nothing, for Bak was wearing a tunic to cover the bandage. Unfortunately the salve the physician had applied smelled of a musty-scented herb, which anyone who came close might notice.
“You’ve been asking too many questions. One of them must’ve struck its target.”
“I wish I knew which it was. I lay awake last night trying to think of anything I might’ve said that would plant fear in a man’s heart. I came up with nothing.”
They turned into an intersecting lane, following Sennefer and Minkheper, who in turn were walking behind Horho tep. The military adviser was trying hard to interject himself between Amonked and Commander Woser, who led the way, but the lane was too narrow to allow for three abreast.
They were in the lower city not far from the harbor, in the area where Bak’s assailant had vanished in the night.
They had seen warehouses filled with grain for the garrison; with cowhides, good-quality stone, and rare woods bound for Kemet; and with locally made pottery, export-quality linen, and a wine of unexceptional vintage bound for the land of Kush. They had just left a well-guarded building filled with jars of aromatic oils and colorful stones that would, in a few months, enhance the prestige and appear ance of those who dwelt or toiled in the royal house.
“I might simply have been the chance victim of a sneak thief,” Bak said, “a local man who thought to steal my weapons and jewelry. If he’d known who I was, he’d’ve stayed well clear.”
His friend raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to con vince me or yourself?”
“Nebwa! I haven’t the vaguest idea who slew Baket Amon. Why would anyone wish me dead?”
“All who live in Wawat know you’ve not once failed to snare any slayer you’ve sought. That alone would drive fear into the heart of the man you seek.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “The slayer came from
Waset. He’s a member of Amonked’s party. I doubt he’s heard of my so-called prowess as a hunter of men.”
“Our illustrious inspector of fortresses mentioned while in Buhen your success in laying hands on those who were smuggling elephant tusks. And Commandant Thuty vowed to sing your praises in the letter he wrote Amonked before we left Buhen. You delivered that letter yourself.”
Nebwa did not have to spell out the obvious: if Amonked knew of Bak’s successes, so, no doubt, would everyone else in his party.
“You don’t rely on hunting to supply the garrison with fowl?” Amonked asked.
“We do, yes. The river offers an abundance of birds.
Especially when the seasons change and they fly north or south in vast numbers.” Commander Woser walked out from beneath the portico, in actuality four connected lean tos with palm-frond roofs, built around the high mudbrick walls of the poultry yard. “The ducks and geese you see here are held captive for their eggs and chicks.”
Amonked eyed, in the shade of the portico, several dozen flattish, large-mouthed baked clay bowls filled with straw, many occupied by nesting ducks and geese. “I see.”
“Would it not be more worthwhile to raid nests in the wild?” Horhotep asked irritably. He stood at the edge of the shallow square pool in the center of the yard, scraping the bottom of a sandal on the rim, removing the smelly, gooey waste he had stepped in. “Look at the number of men you need here. They must clean the yard and carry away the manure. They must constantly fill the pool with water, clip the birds’ wings and feed them, and perform innumerable tasks I can but imagine.”
“Less than half the population of Iken carries spear and shield,” Woser said, speaking with forced patience, “and only half the remainder are fully occupied with trading.
What would you have us do with the balance? Let them idle away each day, with nothing better to do than foment trouble?”
“You’ve only to send them on their way, back to their homeland.”
“No man comes to Iken without good reason,” Nebwa stated in a flat, hard voice, “and none remain unless they must. They’d not retain their traveling passes otherwise.”
A brownish goose waddled toward Horhotep, wings flap ping, hissing. He wasted no time rejoining the men under the portico. “How long can it possibly take to conduct the kind of business available to the impoverished wretches
I’ve seen so far?”
Nebwa raked the adviser with cold eyes. “The most pow erful of kings need not wear fine linen and jewelry, Lieu tenant.”
“Some people await a ship, and many ships are delayed,”
Woser hastened to explain. “Others place orders for objects that have yet to be produced. And others await caravans that come across the desert from distant oases, their day of arrival impossible to predict-if indeed they arrive at all.
They oft times bring too few trade items to provide suste nance over an extended period of time. Especially when they bring along large families.”
“Nonetheless, they must eat and sleep while they’re here,” Amonked said, nodding his understanding. “I ap plaud your good sense, Commander, in seeing that they earn what they consume.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened in resentment, but he had the wit to hold his tongue. Bak was pleasantly surprised by the inspector’s open approval, and he could see that Nebwa and Woser shared the feeling.
As in each warehouse they had visited, Woser began to rattle off exact numbers-in this case, of birds consumed within the garrison and the lower city, of eggs laid and distributed, of sheaves of straw spread out and cleared away each week, and so on.
Half listening, taking care where he trod, Bak walked to the edge of the pool, where steps descended into the water, easing the path of the large flock that dwelt in the yard. Six or eight ducks swam toward him and gathered around his feet, quacking loudly, clearly expecting to be fed.
Bak turned his back to the pool and studied the men of the inspection party, wondering which-if any-had leaped upon him in the night, dagger in hand. If one of them had, it would not be the first time the man he sought had as sumed he knew more than he actually did.
Amonked, the individual with the most promising reason for slaying Baket-Amon, seemed a most unlikely assailant.
Of medium height, a bit stout, an indoor man through and through. But he had once been a youth, and all healthy sons of the nobility were schooled in wrestling and in the use of weapons.
Horhotep had envied Baket-Amon, but envy alone seemed a small reason for murder. A trained officer, as he was purported to be, would know how to steal up behind a man and stab him. The most skilled of soldiers would have had trouble striking a death blow on so dark a night, especially with the victim bundled up and shapeless the way Bak had been.
Sennefer, who claimed to have liked and admired Baket Amon, posed a puzzle. Would a man of wealth and position come to Wawat out of simple curiosity about the land and its people? He was a hunter and fisherman, presumably skilled in the use of weapons, but, if he was as fond of the prince as he said, he had had no reason for slaying him.
Another man with no clear reason for murder was Cap tain Minkheper-for the simple reason that he had not known Baket-Amon well. Or such was his claim. Bak had no doubt he could slay a man. Men who sailed merchant ships on the Great Green Sea had to be strong and tough, prepared to do battle with pirates and competitors alike.
What of the others who had come with Amonked from
Waset? Like Sennefer, Lieutenant Merymose claimed to have admired the prince. He was moderately skilled in the use of weapons, thanks to Sergeant Dedu, and he was young and strong. But he was another who had no evident reason for murder.
Thaneny was crippled, but his upper torso was more muscular than most, better developed. Bak was convinced the scribe would never have slain Baket-Amon-or any other man-for himself, but if he firmly believed an indi vidual’s death would help Amonked or Nefret, he would not hesitate.
What of Nefret? Bak did not think all women frail and helpless. Far from it. Given the prince’s weakness for women, the concubine could easily have drawn him close and stabbed him. Stuffing the large, heavy body into the closet would have been no mean feat, but not impossible.
Especially if she had help. The same was true of the boy
Pawah. He might have been able to stab the prince but would have had trouble hiding the body-without help.
Neither had attacked Bak, of that he was certain. Nor had his assailant been a man with a leg too deformed to run.
The inspection party walked from the poultry yard to the animal paddocks, which were much like those in Buhen, and thence to the huge outdoor market, a place Bak re membered well from his earlier journey to Iken. It was much larger than that of Buhen and far more colorful.
With Amonked and Woser in the lead and Horhotep pressing close, they walked aisles that separated a multitude of lean-to-like stalls, the products on display shaded by swaths of linen or palm fronds or woven reed mats. People crowded the aisles, some who lived along the Belly of Stones, many who came from afar. Long wraps in bright colors and patterns vied with the stark white kilts of the land of Kemet. Ordinary seed beads competed with the most opulent of inlaid jewelry. Languages that clicked and hissed and purred kept translators running from stall to stall to aid in transactions simple or complicated. Transitory smells, tantalizing or repugnant, drifted through the air: per fume and sweat, incense and rotting vegetables, flowers and animal waste.
They stopped often, sampling fruits and vegetables, tast ing herbs and spices, peeking into wide-mouthed jars of dried beans and peas and grain. They examined lengths of cloth, laughed at performing monkeys, delighted in toys with movable parts, ate braised beef and fresh bread, tested for sharpness the edges of spearpoints and daggers. Amon ked let down his guard, openly delighted with all he saw.
Horhotep, so full of himself he failed to notice, abandoned all pretense of restraint and sneered at the thriving market, the exotic people, the wondrous products.
As they walked away from the market, Horhotep stopped to study the massive fortified wall that protected the lower city, then his eyes darted toward the busy stalls and colorful crowd. A scowl of extreme distaste marred his features.
“Tell me, Commander Woser, why have you expended so much time and effort renovating the peripheral wall when you allow inside that wall every wretched two-legged crea ture from upriver and off the desert?”
“This is the largest market on the frontier, Lieutenant.”
Woser, who had evidently had enough of the man’s inso lence, accented the rank, making it sound not quite respect able. “It draws more people than any other along the river, from the border of Kemet at Abu to the unknown reaches of the south. Products of every type are exchanged, each of value in its own way. Should we ask those who come to display their wares in a place unprotected from those who take what they want, giving nothing in return?”
“If the market is worth protecting-and I have my doubts-why have you not repaired the spur walls on the citadel? Do you wish the heart of the fortress to collapse while you struggle to preserve its skin?”
Bak leaned toward Nebwa and muttered, “Does he never listen to anyone other than himself?”
“Repairs are made when and where necessary.” Woser’s voice was taut, betraying the effort he made to give a civil answer. Swinging away, he led them down a lane between two warehouses. “Come, we’ve a skiff awaiting us at the harbor. If you’re to rejoin your caravan before nightfall, we must hurry on to the island fortress.”
“How can you say the market isn’t worthy of protec tion?” Bak demanded of Horhotep.
Amonked gave his adviser a curious look. “Yes, Lieu tenant, explain yourself. I, too, am puzzled.”
Horhotep flung a self-important smile Bak’s way. “From what I’ve seen, products exchange hands here with no toll ever being paid. If the same objects were carried across the frontier by respectable merchants, each ship or caravan would hand over a substantial amount, giving our sovereign her rightful share of the merchandise.”
“Tolls are collected at the outer gate,” Woser said. “True, our demands are modest. Their purpose is not to increase the wealth of the royal house but to remind all who enter of the debt of gratitude they owe our sovereign for allowing them to trade here.”
“Why settle for a pittance when we could have far more?”
“Increasing the toll would reduce the number of people who bring goods here to trade,” Bak said, “allowing no gain to our sovereign and a loss to this city and this land. They would move their business elsewhere, probably to an island south of Semna. What they’d lose in safety, they’d gain in profit, for they’d pay no tolls at all.”
“Must I give you a history lesson, Lieutenant?” Nebwa, the son of a soldier, had grown to manhood in the fortress
Lauren Haney of Kubban several days’ sail north of Buhen and knew the reasons behind many decisions obscured by the passage of time. “Iken has been a market city for many generations, from the time of Khakaure Senwosret. When our sover eign’s father, Akheperkare Thutmose, marched up the river with his army and conquered the lands far to the south, he ordered that this market remain open. Not only does it lure products seldom offered to traders, but it brings people to gether in a way not possible for the more formal trading expeditions.”
“To survive and thrive, the market must be kept safe,”
Bak added, thinking of Amonked’s mission. “The reno vated wall discourages raiders, the army holds them at arm’s length.”
“I must admit this city intrigues me.” Amonked stepped over a skinny black dog sprawled across the lane. “Far more than Buhen or any other place I’ve seen so far, it emphasizes the importance of trade to this region.”
Woser’s fast pace and the heavily populated lanes for bade further discussion, allowing Horhotep time to marshal his rebuttal. As they walked out on the northernmost of two long, stone quays, he sidled up to Amonked. “I see no tactical reason for the army to continue its occupation of this garrison. The local people, as sullen as they are, pose no real threat, and I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.”
“I can take no more of that pompous ass,” Nebwa mut tered. “I’ll meet you here when you return from the island.”
He swung around and stalked off, giving Bak no time to plead that he remain.
Amonked watched him go. After bending so far as to request that Nebwa and Bak accompany the inspection party, he had to be displeased by the troop captain’s abdi cation, but as usual his face gave no hint of his feelings.
“You call that structure a fortress. I call it four walls with no purpose.” Horhotep climbed out of the skiff and stood on the quay, looking eastward toward the island from which they had come, impossible to see beyond a closer rocky prominence. “No man of good sense would station soldiers there.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Amonked said, clambering out of the vessel, “it proved itself quite useful when King Amon Psaro came to Iken some months ago.” He glanced at Bak, who waited in the prow while Woser climbed out. “Did you not prevent at that time what could have been a most serious incident, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Nebwa had said, Thuty had sung their praises. But in such detail? Or had Amonked, before he left the capital, read all the reports sent to Waset by the viceroy? A bur densome task. Necessary if a man wished to make a wise decision. A decision that would affect the well-being of thousands of men and women. Would a man be that con scientious if his sole intent was to carry out his sovereign’s wishes?
“The rapids here are fearsome.” Minkheper leaped onto the quay with practiced ease. “Is this the upper limit of those we looked upon yesterday from the watch station?”
“As far as I know.” Scrambling out of the skiff, Bak looked toward Woser for an answer, but the commander had hurried on up the quay to meet Nebwa, leaning against the mooring post closest to shore. “I’ve had no chance to travel farther south.”
“Even with the floodwaters at their highest, I’d not enjoy taking a ship through those rocks.”
After Sennefer climbed out of the boat, the three of them strode up the quay behind the inspector and his adviser. A stiff breeze had come up and the warmth of the early af ternoon sun was filtered through a dusty haze blowing off the desert from the northwest. A faint smell of braised lamb roused Bak’s hunger.
“How has the fortress held up?” Nebwa asked, his good humor restored. “Is it overgrown already with tamarisk and weeds?”
“It’d take some clearing,” Bak admitted, “but Woser could still shelter a king there if need be.”
Nebwa lowered his voice and nodded toward Horhotep.
“What did the visiting swine have to say about it?”
“He…” A movement deep in the shadow of the ware house closest to the quay caught Bak’s eye. He spotted a bow and glimpsed an arrow taking flight. “Look out!”
The missile sped past Amonked, missing him by an arm’s length. Bak raced toward the hidden archer with
Nebwa at his side. A stream of arrows flew past, their course nowhere near, their target uncertain. Too many ar rows for one man to fire, Bak thought, the wild shots of inexperienced men-or men firing in haste or desperation.
Three men armed with bows burst from the shadow and raced like frightened hares into the nearest lane. Bak and
Nebwa sped after them. They turned to the right into an intersecting street and to the left at the next lane. Another turn carried them deeper into the lower city, closer to the escarpment. People leaped out of their way, dogs barked, a small child wailed when an archer kicked its ball far down a lane. Bak feared the trio would split up, but in their panic they ran on together. He feared they would lose themselves in the maze-like lanes, as his assailant had done the pre vious night, but that, too, proved an unnecessary worry. A final turn carried them into a lane that went nowhere.
Bak and Nebwa found them standing at the base of the escarpment, caught in a trap of their own making. Panting for breath, frightened, shamed by so gross a failure, they dropped their bows and quivers to the ground and held their hands at shoulder level, signaling defeat.
“All right,” Nebwa said, “who are you and what, in the name of the lord Amon, did you think you were doing?”
They looked at each other, each man pleading silently with the others to speak up. To think of a tale, Bak suspected, that would make them look as innocent as newborn calves.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen.” He stared at them, his expression stern. “I must know your names and how you earn your bread.”
Each rattled off a name and an occupation. One was an armorer, another butchered meat for the garrison, the third made the heavy leather sandals worn by the troops. Men not of the army, but men whose livelihoods depended upon the army’s continued occupation of the fortress. Bak glanced at Nebwa, who nodded his understanding of the reason behind their foolishness.
Hearing a noise in the lane behind them, Bak glanced back. He could hardly believe his eyes. Amonked and Sen nefer stood in an intersecting lane, too deep in its mouth to be seen by the three bowmen. The inspector’s face was flushed and he was gasping for breath, while Sennefer showed slight strain as a result of the chase.
“Who were you trying to slay?” Nebwa, unaware of the men behind him, looked as severe as Bak had, but his voice carried a suspicious note of humor. “From your lack of skill, the wild manner in which your arrows flew, it was hard to know.”
“We didn’t want to slay anyone,” the butcher wailed.
“We wanted to scare him, that’s all. The inspector.”
“What’ll we do if he tears the army from Iken?” the sandal maker whined. “We all have wives whose families dwell here. Our children know nothing but this city, this land of Wawat.”
“What good would I be with the army gone?” the ar morer asked. “Merchants have no use for weapons.”
Bak secretly blessed the trio. In a few highly emotional words, they had unknowingly told Amonked what he most needed to hear.
Nebwa eyed them long and hard. “What shall we do with them, Lieutenant?”
“We could turn them over to Horhotep.” Bak looked from one man to the next, making sure they understood the worst possible consequence of their actions. “Lieutenant
Horhotep, the inspector’s military adviser is a cold, unfor giving man who’ll insist you be sent to the desert mines as punishment.”
“No!” they chorused, horrified.
“What would happen to our families?” the sandal maker cried.
“My wife. How would she feed our children?” the ar morer wailed.
Nebwa frowned, pretending to think over their fate. “I’d prefer we turn them over to Commander Woser. They’re his men, his problem.”
“Let them go.” Amonked came up beside the two offi cers, his breathing not yet under control. “I’d guess their attempt at murder frightened them as much as me. I doubt they’ll ever again repeat so foolhardy an action.”
Bak did not know which was the more surprising: the fact that the inspector had managed to follow them or that he had given so generous a judgment. “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”
“Set them free.”
No men had ever before dropped to their knees in front of Bak and bowed so low their foreheads touched the ground. He was startled-and discomfited-by their ex treme gratitude. Amonked looked unmoved.
Nebwa set a fast pace at the head of the desert patrol
Woser had assigned to escort them south to the caravan.
The ten spearmen who regularly patrolled the desert sands were hard-muscled, tough-thinking young men burned dark by the sun. The sleek, well-groomed men from the capital maintained the same fast pace, but with an effort. Assuming the attempt on Amonked’s life had shown him how vul nerable he was, Bak thought it a good time to probe for information. He drew the inspector off to the side of the column, close enough to be safe, far enough so no one could hear.
They were on high ground, following a trail that would, later in the day, strike off across the desert to avoid a bend in the river, saving many hours’ march over hard, rough terrain. To the east, islands large and small broke the sur face of the glittering ribbon of water contained between tree-lined banks interrupted at times by the mouths of dry watercourses covered with black, fertile soil or by streams of sand spilling out from the desert. In spite of the obsta cles, the river flowed more freely than at any time since they had left Kor.
Amonked studied the surrounding landscape, his face clouded by worry. “Do you think it wise to walk so far from the patrol?”
Since leaving Iken, Bak had seen no one standing along the riverbank, watching them pass. The trees were thick enough to shelter an army, but was not the purpose of the endless watch to be seen? To unnerve with a continuing presence? “I wish to speak of Nefret and Baket-Amon, sir.
If you have no objection to others hearing, we can rejoin them.”
“Our experience in Iken has made me too cautious,”
Amonked admitted, looking chagrined. “If anyone chose to attack us now, we’d see them in plenty of time.”
Bak forced himself not to look again at the river, but the temptation was great. The absence of watchers puzzled him.
Why were they not there as always before? Something must have happened to discourage them, but what? Surely not
Amonked’s kindness to those three witless bowmen. Some thing of far greater significance.
“I know you quarreled with Baket-Amon,” he said.
“So Thaneny told me.” Amonked expelled a humorless laugh. “It was naive of me to believe you’d not learn of the confrontation, but I don’t like to think of myself as a man of no self-control, and to proclaim my irrationality to a stranger is repugnant.”
“Baket-Amon’s reputation with women neared mythical proportions, and your concubine is a very lovely and de sirable woman. You surely know that fact alone places you high among those who might have wished him dead.”
“We argued about her, yes. But would I slay a man for her? Never!”
“Then tell me of your quarrel.”
“I can assure you that our words spoken in anger were quickly forgiven and forgotten. By me, for a fact. By him as well, if I’m the excellent judge of men Maatkare Hat shepsut believes me to be.”
Did he mention his cousin, thinking to intimidate me?
Bak wondered. “To keep the quarrel a secret multiplies my suspicions ten times over.”
The inspector threw him an irritated look. “I’ve no desire to speak further of the matter.”
“Do you want the prince’s death to go unresolved? Do you wish the thought to fester forever in men’s hearts that you slew him?”
Amonked stared, thin-lipped, at the pack of feral dogs ranging across the sandy waste to the west. The animals had abandoned the inspection party in Iken, joining their brethren who dwelt within the walls of the fortress. The caravan had gone on without them, but some ancient in stinct had caused them to again form a band and follow the desert patrol and their lofty charges.
Amonked tore his gaze from the dogs and, with a dis tasteful look, began to speak. “Yes, Baket-Amon desired
Nefret. I’m not certain how often he came to my dwelling in Waset-neither she nor my wife would tell me-but at some point he made a nuisance of himself and the two of them together told me of his visits. I doubt he loved Nefret.
My wife believes that because she held herself aloof while other young women doted on him, she became a challenge he could not resist.”
“I’ve never heard that he pursued a woman uninvited.”
“Nor have I, but my wife assured me such was the case with Nefret. And my wife is a truthful woman.” Amonked looked hard at Bak, daring him to challenge the assertion.
“I confronted the prince and told him he must go away and forget her.”
“He agreed, I assume.”
“He offered to buy her.” Amonked’s annoyance was plain. “As if she were a common servant, one who’d come into my home and my bed to pay off her father’s debts. I set him straight on that score and refused his offer. We quarreled. Unaccustomed to having his wishes denied, he…” Raising his chin high, Amonked said indignantly,
“He called me a selfish old man.”
Selfish and old, Bak thought. Words designed to wound, words no man wishes to repeat when applied to himself.
“Not the judicious response I’d have expected from a royal envoy.”
“Indeed not.”
Bak offered an understanding smile. “You were in censed, I assume, and rightly so.”
“I ordered him out of my house. He refused to leave without hearing from Nefret that she wanted nothing to do with him. I finally threatened to speak to my cousin, Maat kare Hatshepsut, and he hurried away in a huff.”
“Never to return?”
“Never.” Amonked’s eyes darted toward Bak and he added with a certain amount of bitterness, “Why would I slay a man when I have merely to mention my cousin’s name and my least significant wish becomes a command?”
This was a side of the inspector Bak had never imagined, and he liked him better for the admission. He yearned to respond, but could think of nothing appropriate to say. So they walked along together, saying nothing, their silence strained at first but soon strangely comfortable.
Late in the afternoon they stopped at a watch station located on a rocky knob that rose above the surrounding landscape. While Amonked spoke with the sergeant in charge, Bak looked off to the south, where the caravan was making its slow way across the rolling, sandswept land scape, leaving behind the river and the wrath of the people who dwelt along its banks.
A soldier on duty pointed out, some distance to the west, a half-dozen ant-sized figures. “I thought at first they were nomads coming to the river for water, but instead they trav eled a parallel course to the caravan. Now, with the sun at their backs, making it hard to see them, they’re getting closer.”
Bak shaded his eyes with his hand. “They’re up to no good, we must assume, but what do they hope to gain? Our archers could decimate so small a group in no time at all.”
The inspection party rejoined the caravan as the sun sank toward the western horizon. Bidding good-bye to the desert patrol, who hastened east toward the river, they walked forward along the line of donkeys. They found the men in the lead unloading their animals and setting up camp on a broad sweep of desert with a cluster of sandy hillocks off to the west. Seshu stood in the midst of the commotion, issuing orders with skill and authority. Leaving the others to go their own way, Bak and Nebwa walked to him.
As they spoke of the next day’s march, the lord Re set tled on the horizon, preparing to enter the netherworld. The yellow-gold feral dog to which the bundle of sandals had been tied crouched among the piles of supplies, waiting to steal any food it could grab. The creature raised its head and sniffed the air, drawing Bak’s attention. It stood, trotted up the shallow slope to the west, and stopped to sniff again.
The hair rose on the back of its neck and it began to bark.
Other dogs raced up from all directions and they sped out across the desert, barking for all they were worth. Nebwa and Bak exchanged a silent query: a gazelle? Or the nomads they had seen from the watch station?
Before they could go see for themselves, a half-dozen men crested a hillock. The dogs stopped to watch from a safe distance. With the light behind the men, detail was lacking, but Bak could make out long spears and shields.
The sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the sky in one last brilliant flash of color. The figures were for a short time fully visible. Six men of the desert, one standing out from the rest. A man clad in a red kilt, with a red feather rising above his hair.
Nebwa spat out an oath. “Hor-pen-Deshret.”
“The swine has come,” Seshu said with venom.
“He must be the reason we’ve seen no people along the river,” Bak said.
“I’d not be surprised.” Nebwa glared at the men across the sand. “He raided farms and hamlets all along the west bank, taking the animals and harvest for his people and impoverishing the farmers. After he became more daring, robbing caravans and gaining more booty in a single attack than he had during a dozen before, he continued to take what was theirs.”
“He’s come to look us over, to evaluate the risk and gain.” Seshu’s expression was bleak. “I feared something like this would happen. So rich a caravan draws raiders like ants to grease.”
Nebwa was equally grim. “For every man we see, he’ll have eight or ten behind him, camped out of sight some where on the desert.”
“He’s surely heard of Amonked’s mission,” Bak said.
“Wouldn’t he be wise to hold off, waiting until the army is torn from the Belly of Stones?”
“You don’t know Hor-pen-Deshret,” Nebwa growled.
“Greed drives him, not good sense. If he concludes this caravan is worth attacking-and he will-he’ll think of to day’s gain, not tomorrow’s.”
The men’s concern was contagious, infecting Bak. “What of the people along the river? Will they stand with us if we’re attacked? He’s their foe as well as ours.”
Nebwa shrugged. “They fear him greatly and they mis 172
Lauren Haney trust Amonked. To them, one evil may be no better than another.”
Bak muttered a curse. This was the longest stretch be tween fortresses, a three-day march across the open desert to Askut. He and Nebwa, the two sergeants, and twenty archers could easily hold off fifty or so men attacking en masse. But random attacks along the length of a moving caravan or an attack by a large party would be impossible to fight off. Unless… “Go find Lieutenant Merymose and
Sergeant Dedu. Those fifty guards must be trained to be soldiers immediately.”