“I don’t see Hor-pen-Deshret among them.” Bak stared off across the desert at the half-dozen tribesmen who had kept pace with the caravan since they had broken camp at first light.
“Nor do I.” Nebwa, standing with him on a tall granite monolith that rose above the rolling sandhills, eyed the dis tant figures, his face grim. “He’s close by, though. I can feel him.”
“Strange that none of the desert patrols from Iken noticed any unusual movement over the last few days.”
“I’ll wager the swine came from straight out of the desert.”
Bak turned around to look at the long line of donkeys plodding south along the trail. The gentle morning breeze, its chill banished by the sun, was too weak to account for the clear blue sky above the caravan. The sand here was coarse and heavy, almost free of dust. Isolated granite ridges and knobs rose out of a seemingly endless blanket of gold, with long dunes trailing off from their downwind side.
He was worried. By crossing this segment of desert, avoiding the long bend in the river, they were shaving al most two days off their journey. But they had to pay for the shorter passage. The river would be more than an hour’s walk away for a man in a hurry, a march from dawn to dusk for the heavily burdened donkeys. Forced to carry water, each animal was laden with the maximum it could manage, slowing the caravan as a whole while at the same time saving thousands upon thousands of steps.
Taking a final, long look at the tribesmen, he said, “We must assume those men are an advanced guard, keeping an eye on our progress while Hor-pen-Deshret’s fighting force comes from farther afield. Two questions arise: How large will that force be? How long will it take to reach us?”
“He must know we’ve no intention of traveling beyond
Semna, and he’ll want to attack well before we get there.
Other than Buhen, it’s the only garrison with a full com plement of troops.” Nebwa climbed down the side of the monolith, taking care where he placed his feet on the eroded stone. “As for how many men he’s gathered, only the lord Set knows. He’s never been known to risk an attack unprepared.”
“This long stretch of open desert looks to me a good place to strike.”
“I can think of no better.” Nebwa eyed the distant men, his face dour. “I imagine he came yesterday to look us over, to see for himself the riches we’re carrying and the number of men he’ll have to face. If he liked what he saw… And how could he not?… he’ll think the gain worth the risk.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, making it look more out of control than usual. “Let’s hope he’s decided he needs more men and won’t strike until they arrive. He’ll have seen fifty spearmen and twenty archers, but he’d have no way of knowing the spearmen lack training in the arts of war.”
Bak followed him off the protuberance, and the pair set out across the sand, heading toward the caravan. “Last night’s session went better than I expected. If enthusiasm is any measure of success, Merymose will one day be a general. The guards who report to him, as soft as their lives have been in the capital, surprised me with their willingness to learn.”
“They’d better show enthusiasm. Their lives may depend on it.” A sudden thought banished the severity from
Nebwa’s face and he grinned. “Do you remember what
Horhotep said yesterday, before we left Iken, about desert raiders?”
Bak altered his voice slightly and quoted the adviser word for word: “ ‘I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.’ ”
“I wonder what he thinks now.”
“He won’t admit he’s erred until he has to.”
“Did you notice him standing in the shadows last night, watching us school the guards?”
“I feared for a while he’d order Merymose away, but he didn’t say a word.”
“I’ll wager Amonked got an earful.”
Bak’s laugh was short and humorless. “I’ve no experi ence training spearmen, as you have, but after we finished last night, I went to my sleeping place satisfied. Another few hours of schooling may not give the men the skill of seasoned troops, but I felt they’d be able to hold their own against tribesmen untrained in the finer points of warfare.”
“They’ll do all right with the spear,” Nebwa admitted,
“but they need replacement weapons should they lose or break those they have-and they’ll need weapons more suited to hand-to-hand combat: scimitars, maces, axes, slings.”
Bak’s expression turned dubious. “Not even the lord
Amon could supply those. This is a civilian caravan, not one meant to support an army.”
Nebwa scowled, taking the words to heart. “I must take an inventory, learn which of the drovers was once a soldier, who brought arms along and who didn’t. Better to know the worst from the start than to be surprised too late.”
The caravan moved on through the morning, with the tribesmen keeping pace off to the west. Bak walked the length of the long train of animals, speaking with drovers, archers, and Merymose’s guards, taking their measure in the face of a possible attack. Morale was good, thanks to a blind faith in Nebwa’s ability to see them trained and armed-and in Bak’s ability to lay hands on Baket-Amon’s slayer, thereby regaining at least partial goodwill of the people who dwelt along the river. And maybe their help, should help be needed.
Feeling like a man pinned against a wall, Bak thought long and hard about the prince’s death. He had been certain someone in the inspector’s party, someone who had been inside their quarters in Buhen, had slain Baket-Amon. Yet out here in the desert, living among them, asking questions that led nowhere, doubts plagued him. As no courier had come from Imsiba, the Medjay must also have come up empty-handed, contrary to Amonked’s initial prediction.
Small consolation, with the caravan being so barren of re sults.
Midday came and went and the animals plodded on.
“What do they do with the women they take?” Nefret stared at the small figures on the horizon, her eyes wide with fear. “Do they slay them outright? Or use them and throw them away? Or do they enslave them?”
Mesutu trudged behind her mistress’s carrying chair, her eyes straight ahead. Now and again she stumbled, as if her thoughts had fled to some far away and safer place.
The four porters holding Nefret aloft exchanged a sur reptitious look among themselves, its meaning betrayed when one man rolled his eyes skyward. Those walking a parallel course, carrying Thaneny’s chair, exchanged bored looks. They had apparently grown weary of the beautiful
Nefret and her many complaints. The third carrying chair,
Sennefer had left at Iken along with his four porters and many of his personal items. He could not have foreseen the arrival of Hor-pen-Deshret, but he had realized the value of traveling light.
“You’re taking the presence of those desert nomads far too seriously, mistress.” Lieutenant Horhotep, walking be side the young woman, had to know Bak could hear. “I’d not be surprised if they sneaked up in the night to steal, but would six men attack a caravan as large as this?” He answered the question with a derisive laugh.
Pawah, walking with Sennefer between the two carrying chairs, eyed the adviser doubtfully. “The drover Pashenuro thinks these men have come to seek out weak spots for a greater force soon to attack.”
Assuming his most sarcastic look, Horhotep said, “A drover? A frontier drover? Where did he train in the arts of war?”
Pawah’s face flamed. Eyes flashing defiance, he opened his mouth to retort. Thaneny touched him on the shoulder, drawing his attention, and shook his head to signal silence.
Sennefer put an arm around the youth’s shoulder and drew him off to the side of the caravan’s path. As Bak passed them, he heard the nobleman say in a voice too subdued for the adviser to hear, “Not everyone is blessed with common sense, Pawah, and those who aren’t seldom listen to those who are.”
“Hor-pen-Deshret.” Amonked, walking at Bak’s side, gave no sign that he had heard the exchange. “Before we left the capital, I read a few reports from Buhen, several of which mentioned the name. As I recall, Troop Captain
Nebwa fought alongside Commandant Nakht when the wretched man was defeated and when he and the remnants of his tribal army were chased far into the desert.”
Bak was no longer surprised that the inspector knew of past activities in the Belly of Stones. He was surprised by the depth of that knowledge. Amonked had clearly read more than “a few reports.” “Yes, sir. That’s why Nebwa’s worried, why he believes we must prepare to hold off a fighting force. He knows from experience what to expect.”
“You agree with him, I see.”
“Wholeheartedly.”
Horhotep dropped back to Amonked’s side and gave Bak a cool look. “Aren’t you raising an alarm when no alarm is warranted, Lieutenant? Or are you using the presence of a few pathetic nomads to sway our decision about the future of the fortresses along this segment of river?”
“Sir!” Bak swung around to face Amonked; his voice hardened. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, no man will be safe whether he be farmer, trader, drover, or royal envoy. Hor-pen-Deshret is a criminal, plain and sim ple, and he and his followers will have free rein.”
Amonked looked from Bak to Horhotep and back again, as if uncertain in which of the two he could place the most confidence.
“I suggest you speak with Nebwa, sir,” Bak said, “and with Seshu. He also has firsthand knowledge of the desert raiders.”
“Yes,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “Yes, I shall. I understand the troop captain is presently taking inventory of men and equipment. I’ll see him when he’s finished and has the time to speak freely.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened, sealing inside whatever comment he wished to make.
“Oh, Thaneny, stop patronizing me!” Nefret’s words cut through the air, sharp with impatience. “I can’t help being afraid! I don’t care what you say or what Horhotep says or
Amonked or anyone else, those men frighten me!”
“First it was the men along the river, and now this!”
Amonked expelled a long, irritated sigh. “I can understand her anxiety-I also am concerned-but will she never learn to suffer in silence?”
You don’t know how fortunate you are, Bak thought, that
Thaneny so often stands between you, taking the brunt of her wrath.
“She’ll not be content until we return to Kemet, that she’s made clear, but I suppose I must make an effort to soothe her.” Amonked looked at the concubine for a long time, as if he dreaded going to her. “Do you share your life with a woman, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re a most fortunate man.”
Bak walked back along the caravan in search of Captain
Minkheper. Horhotep had once made a passing comment he hoped the seaman could enlarge upon. He spotted the tall figure walking toward him about halfway along the line of donkeys.
“Captain Minkheper,” he said, smiling. “For one who’s supposed to be studying the river, you’re a long way into the desert.”
“Why I ever accepted this accursed mission, I’ll never know.” The seaman bent to shake the grit from a sandal.
“I’ve just talked with a drover, a former sailor who plied the waters in this area. He said, and I quote: ‘If our sov ereign thinks to build a canal through the Belly of Stones, she’s got more rocks in her head than the lord Hapi has deposited in the river between Semna and Buhen.’ ” He paused, letting a smile spread across his face. “Needless to say, she’ll hear nothing of the sort from me.”
Laughing, Bak fell in beside him. “I’ve heard she has a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t want to test the fact with a statement like that.”
Minkheper’s good spirits faded and he gave Bak a frus trated look. “I don’t doubt your drover, but I should be on the river, studying its flow firsthand.”
“Would that you could. I’d be by your side, enjoying a cool breeze and a swim. But until I lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I can’t guarantee that any man in the in spection party, walking alone and unguarded, would be safe from some irate farmer.”
“Can you guarantee our safety here, on this dry and bar ren trail?” Minkheper asked, looking pointedly toward the distant figures of the desert tribesmen.
“There are few absolutes in life, sir.”
A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “From what
I hear, Hor-pen-Deshret is more of a threat to the local farmers than Amonked is. I’d think they’d be grateful we’re here, deflecting his attention from them.”
“When we get closer to Askut and the river, I mean to speak with a man influential in this area. Perhaps I can convince him it would be to the people’s advantage to help us. Until then, we must wait. I dare not leave the caravan now lest the tribesmen attack out here in the open desert.
In that case, every man and weapon will be needed.”
“Can I help?”
“Speak with Nebwa. He can best tell you what needs to be done.” The captain nodded and swung around, but be fore he could get away, Bak said, “Someone suggested that
Baket-Amon patronized the houses of pleasure near the wa terfront in Waset. As you’re a seaman, I assume you visited the same establishments.”
Minkheper gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “I keep forgetting that I, along with everyone else in Amonked’s party, am suspected of murder. Each time you come to me with questions, you set me back on my heels.”
“If you’re innocent, you’ll take my queries in stride.”
Bak smiled, cutting the sting from the words.
“If?” Minkheper asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve surely no reason to believe I took his life.”
Bak ignored the implied question. He disliked having men fish for information while he was seining. “If you also frequent the harbor-side houses of pleasure, you must’ve bumped into him in one or another.”
“I’ve been happily wed for years, Lieutenant, and I have three concubines in various ports of call. I’ve no reason to look elsewhere for entertainment or pleasure.”
Bak recalled his recent conversation with Amonked and had trouble holding back a smile. The inspector would be appalled to learn of the captain’s many female attachments.
“You never stop for a beer or a game of chance?”
Minkheper laughed. “I must admit I’m sometimes tempted by a game of throwsticks or knucklebones, and at times I feel a need for masculine company. Not often, mind you. I get plenty of that aboard ship. But often enough that
I’ve heard tales of the prince’s exploits.”
“You never met up with him during one of those…”
Bak smiled. “… domestic lapses?”
The captain acknowledged the jest with a quick smile.
“If so, I didn’t know at the time who he was.” He paused, added, “I moor my ship more often in Mennufer than in
Waset. Its harbor is bigger, its facilities better, and its trad ing establishments more lucrative. My wife dwells there with my firstborn son and three daughters I adore.”
To a man who sailed the Great Green Sea, a preference for the more northerly port made sense. “Did you ever hear of anything Baket-Amon did in Waset that could’ve brought about his death?”
“Jokes were made that he might one day run up against an enraged husband. Otherwise, I don’t recall a thing.”
An irate husband, Bak thought glumly. Once again, the only man who came close was Amonked. Why did all signs have to point to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin? Yet he seemed such an unlikely slayer, and Nefret as a reason for murder seemed more unlikely each time Bak saw them ar guing.
“Other than Lieutenant Bak and me, only Sergeant Dedu and his twenty archers are well-armed,” Nebwa reported,
“and they have a limited supply of arrows.”
His rigid stance and the edge to his voice betrayed his irritation. As the senior military officer in the caravan, he had begun to ready the men for a possible battle, giving no thought to Amonked. The inspector’s summons had caught him off guard, and nothing Bak said could convince him that he was not being called to account. As soon as the pavilion had been erected for the night, while still the don keys were being fed and watered and the men had begun to prepare their evening meal, an ill-humored Nebwa had accompanied Bak to the shelter.
“Lieutenant Merymose and his fifty guards have spears and shields,” Nebwa continued, “but they have no replace ments and no small arms, and not a man among them has had sufficient training. Of the twenty-eight drovers, sixteen are former army men, experienced with bow or spear, but only nine brought along a full complement of weapons.
One porter who brought a basket of herbs, potions, and salves has volunteered to tend any wounded we might have, and Thaneny has offered to help. The other porters have agreed to carry injured men to safety.”
Amonked, seated on his chair, his dog sprawled at his feet, gave Thaneny a look of surprised pleasure.
Bak stood with Nebwa, facing the inspector. Horhotep stood beside the chair, while the scribe, Sennefer, Min kheper, and Merymose stood off to the side. Nefret sat on a low stool in an opening in the hanging that divided the pavilion, with Pawah on the ground beside her, clasping his knees to his breast. Though the chill of night had not yet set in, a brazier burned fitfully, giving off the faint smell of dung not as thoroughly dry as it should be.
“You failed to mention Lieutenant Horhotep,” Amonked pointed out.
Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the adviser. His face re mained impassive. “I’ve yet to learn whether the lieutenant brought arms to Wawat, and I’ve no idea how skilled he is. Until proven otherwise, I must assume he’s no better trained in the arts of war than was Lieutenant Merymose.”
“Are you implying I’m unfit?” Horhotep, an angry flush spreading up his neck and face, glared at the troop captain.
“I’ll have no quarrel!” Amonked barely raised his voice, but his tone broached no argument.
Nebwa went on, unperturbed. “As I’m certain you’ve noticed, Lieutenant Bak, Sergeant Dedu, and I have begun to train Merymose and his men. Given time, they’ll become worthy soldiers.”
“I’d like to take part in that training, if I may,” Sennefer said. “I’m a fair shot with a bow, but my skills with the spear have declined. Other than the wrestling I learned as a youth, I know nothing of hand-to-hand combat.”
Amonked gave his brother-in-law a nod of approval. “I suggest you follow his example, Lieutenant Horhotep. No matter how skilled you are, the practice can do you no harm.”
“Yes, sir.” The vicious look the adviser shot Nebwa would have felled a lesser man.
Bak staved off an urge to applaud.
Nebwa blinked, betraying surprise, but kept his voice level, unemotional. “We can use our batons of office as clubs, as well as other lengths of wood too short to be used for spears, and we can make weapons from unlikely ob jects. For example, several drovers wear leather kilts, which can be cut up for use in slings and to make thongs needed for constructing maces and other small weapons. Spears can be made from poles such as the uprights that support the tents and this pavilion.”
Nefret gasped, drawing Amonked’s attention and a scowl that discouraged complaint. If the inspector himself was dismayed by the suggestion, he betrayed no hint of the feel ing.
“Captain Minkheper,” Nebwa went on, “has offered to show the men how to make these weapons and to see the work done in the best manner possible and at a rapid pace.”
Amonked again nodded approval.
Nebwa said no more, signaling the end of his report.
The inspector broke the ensuing silence, asking the ques tion uppermost in each and every heart. “Should Hor-pen Deshret waylay us with a large force of men, could we hold them off?”
“If they were to attack tomorrow while we’re on the move, I doubt we could. In a day or two, after we’re better prepared, I believe so. We’ll be close enough to Askut by then to summon help. The garrison there is small, but a few well-armed and trained men could make all the difference.”
“What of the local people?” Nefret asked, drawing all eyes her way. “First they were visible day after day and now they’ve gone. Where are they? Lurking somewhere nearby so they, too, can set upon us?”
“I doubt we’ll have to fight on two fronts,” Nebwa said.
“While the people who dwell here don’t like what this in spection party stands for, they hate Hor-pen-Deshret and his ilk.”
“They’ve been victimized by men like him each time the leaders of this land grew careless or weak,” Bak said, mak ing a point he wanted to be sure the inspector understood.
“They may even decide to help us,” Nebwa said, “when
Bak snares Baket-Amon’s slayer.”
“And I will snare him.” The words, spoken firm and positive, were prompted, Bak felt sure, by some mischie vous god recently given a fine offering by Commandant
Thuty, who took his success for granted.
“Lieutenant Bak.” A man, speaking softly but firmly in his ear, caught him by the shoulder and shook him. “Wake up, sir. Wake up.”
Bak rolled over, struggled into a sitting position, and shook his head to clear away the sleep. The night was black, the sliver of moon low, the stars miserly with their light. He could barely make out the individual hovering over him, a drover, he remembered. “What’s wrong?”
“The donkeys are uneasy, sir. Seshu thinks we’ve an in truder. He asked me to summon you.”
Muttering a curse, Bak hauled himself to his feet, found a spear and shield, and looked down at Nebwa and the archers, bundled up in heavy linen to stave off the chill, sleeping soundly. He thought of the man who had slipped in among them to steal their sandals. This might well be a similar prank. If he needed help, he decided, he could sum mon them later. With the drover in the lead, they headed across the encampment. Stepping over sleeping men and around braziers containing fuel long burned to ash, they wove a hurried path through the darkness. The cool night air seeped beneath Bak’s tunic, chilling him to the marrow.
He soon heard the donkeys’ restless movement, their troubled snorts and blowing. The drover led him around the herd to where Seshu stood with Pashenuro and two drovers who had been assigned to keep watch overnight, scaring off predators, preventing the hobbled animals from stray ing, and keeping a wary eye open for desert marauders.
With eyes growing more attuned to the feeble light, he saw that only the men on watch were armed.
“There’s somebody in there, all right,” Seshu growled.
“Have you spotted him?” Bak asked.
A drover shook his head. “Too dark. Can’t see a thing.”
“Are you sure it’s a man and not a jackal? Or maybe dogs?”
“The pack that’s been following us wouldn’t bother the donkeys and they’d chase off any unfamiliar animals, mak ing a racket you could hear all the way to Buhen.”
Pashenuro nodded agreement. “I’d guess a man, sir, probably one of the nomads who’ve been keeping pace with us.”
Bak was not as sure as the sergeant was. The dogs had barked when the tribesmen had first appeared and had since stayed well clear of them, indicating a distinct lack of trust.
Probably because, when catching the big yellow cur for their vile prank, they had frightened the rest of the pack.
“If he’s not to run away in the dark, we’ll need torches.”
As Pashenuro and a drover turned to go, he hastily added,
“And, for the lord Amon’s sake, bring back some weapons.
And shields.”
The pair hurried off to do his bidding. While Seshu and the others remained where they stood, Bak walked in among the nearest animals, speaking quietly, trying to calm them, wishing fervently that he could see better. He could not understand why the dogs were silent. True, they were not trained to protect the caravan, but they were feral, and feral dogs barked at the least provocation.
He turned to sidle between two donkeys, at the same time raising his shield so it would not get in his way. He heard a soft thunk and felt a faint vibration through the heavy cowhide. The donkey to his right snorted fear. Bak’s heart shot into his mouth. The white tunic, he thought, a target in the dark. He ducked low and lunged forward, hiding among the animals. Turning the shield, he looked at its face, at the arrow impaling the leather.
“Get down!” he yelled. “The intruder’s using a bow!”
“Lieutenant!” Pashenuro’s voice and the flicker of light played across the backs of the donkeys.
A whisper of sound caught Bak’s ear. The animal nearest to him screamed and fell to its knees, an arrow planted deep in its thick neck. Bak tried to catch the rope halter to quiet it, but it flung its head and thrashed its legs, trying to escape the pain and the stench of its own blood, and it brayed non stop. The nearer animals panicked and tried to run in spite of their hobbles. Their wild lunges instilled fear into the rest of the herd. The dogs, so quiet before, began to bark, their excitement triggered by the donkeys’ terror.
“Get some men to quiet these animals,” Seshu yelled.
“Lieutenant, are you all right?” Pashenuro called.
Hating what he had to do, Bak jerked his dagger from its sheath and slit the throat of the wounded animal, si lencing it forever. Keeping low, he grabbed the halter of a jenny who, in her panic, was bucking madly, threatening to crush her foal. He led her and her baby away from the dead donkey, caught another animal and quieted it, and another and another. By the time he and the drovers had subdued the most panicked of the creatures, by the time
Pashenuro joined him, torch in hand, he was certain the intruder had gotten away.
Nebwa and the archers came running, awakened by the clamor. They went through the herd, searching for the in terloper, while the drovers quieted the animals and checked their well-being. As soon as they finished, Bak led a thor ough search of the encampment, soothing people who had awakened in alarm, but finding no one who did not belong.
The dogs settled down among the stacks of equipment and supplies as if nothing of note had occurred.
Nebwa assigned more guards to patrol the perimeter of the camp, and he, Bak, and the others returned to their sleeping places. Bak’s last thought before he slept was of the dogs, of their failure to respond, their silence, when what everyone believed was a desert nomad had crept up to the encampment and in among the donkeys.
A nomad, a stranger from outside the camp. He was not so sure.