Bak and Pashenuro left the village at first light and hurried to the nearest watch station, a couple of meager mudbrick buildings built on a high knoll to shelter the half-dozen soldiers posted there. They had expected the station to offer a good vantage point from which to see the caravan ap proaching from the north, but its expansive view proved unnecessary. Men and animals were less than three hundred paces away, breaking camp and preparing to depart. Seshu had kept them marching until nightfall, not stopping until they neared the river and its precious water.
They went first to the station, where they found the men on duty speculating about the tribesmen watching from afar. The sergeant in charge was dismayed to learn of the much larger gathering near Shelfak. He produced the highly polished mirror he used to pass on messages to north and south and, at Bak’s direction, signaled a warning to Askut.
When the inspection party climbed the knoll, Bak drew
Amonked and Nebwa aside to make his report.
“So the local people won’t help us,” Amonked said.
Nebwa screwed up his face in disgust. “Not unless Bak snags Baket-Amon’s slayer. No surprise there. Even then
I’d not want to count their numbers before seeing them in the flesh. Rona can recommend whatever he likes, but if the people think they’d be better off with you dead, they’ll simply close their ears and get on with what suits them.”
The inspector pursed his lips, irritated by so blatant a truth. “Do you have any idea who the slayer might be?” he asked Bak.
“None.” Another truth hard to take, one Bak could not gloss over.
Amonked’s tone sharpened. “Then the wretched creature could as easily be in Buhen as here.”
“Every instinct tells me you brought him with you from
Waset and he’s traveling with us now.”
“I’d feel better, Lieutenant, if you spoke of reason, not instinct.”
“My life has twice been imperiled. One time in Iken, where a man waylaid me in the dark with a dagger…” He spread wide the neck of his tunic, displaying the scabbed over wound. “… and again the night the donkeys were disturbed, when a man with a bow sent arrows my way.
I’d like to believe both attacks occurred because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instinct, however, tells me that two assaults in two days are not coincidental. As
Hor-pen-Deshret doesn’t know me and would have no rea son to wish me dead, the attempts must’ve been made by one who fears I’ll lay hands on him.”
“I had no idea. Why did you not tell me earlier?”
A third truth, Bak felt, needed to be aired. “Because you’ve the most obvious reason for slaying the prince.”
“I see.” The inspector stared at him, his face drained of feeling, as bland as the sculpted demeanor of his illustrious cousin. “I assume you wish me to plead with my fellow travelers to confess to murder.”
Bak had an idea he was being needled. “I’d be satisfied with the truth, sir.”
“Anything else you’d like, Lieutenant?”
Bak stifled a smile. Now he was sure the inspector was being facetious. “The caravan should reach Askut around midday. Rather than letting it go on while you inspect the fortress, as we’ve been doing, I suggest we make camp there, giving the donkeys a respite and the rest of us additional time to prepare for battle. With the tribesmen no more than a half day’s march south of Askut, we’d be tempting the lord Set if we moved on.”
The caravan turned off the desert trail to follow a branch path down a dry watercourse to the river valley. Hurrying on ahead, Bak, Seshu, and Nebwa selected a campsite on a modest grass- and weed-covered rise that looked out over a patchwork of fields almost ready for harvest. Beyond lay the river, where wide channels untroubled by rapids flowed to either side of several large islands.
The fortress of Askut crowned the summit of the island directly to the east. The towered structure was smaller than
Buhen and triangular in shape to better fit the contours of the land, a long and narrow protuberance of rock and sand dotted with trees and what looked from a distance like gar den plots. The walls were a mottled white, which spoke of a multitude of minor repairs or the need for a coat of fresh plaster.
The small garrison, one company of a hundred men plus officers and support personnel, told of a long period of peace, a relaxation of vigilance, and an assumption that infrequent punitive expeditions would be the extent of their soldiering.
Bak turned his back to the river to look at the campsite, where Seshu awaited the lead string of donkeys. The ani mals had just begun to file out of the wadi, ears cocked, pace quickened to a fast clip-clop, at the sight and scent of fresh, green vegetation on which they could graze.
“I’d offer a dozen fat geese to the lord Amon if I could face Hor-pen-Deshret here,” Nebwa said, eyeing the camp site and surrounding terrain. “If only we could find a way to lure those swine off the desert.”
The wadi mouth held Bak’s attention. “The trail through that dry watercourse offers a possibility almost too good to be true.”
“An ambush, you mean.”
“I can think of no better way to narrow the odds-and we must narrow them. According to Rona, we’re already outnumbered, with more men joining Hor-pen-Deshret each day. Even with help from Askut, they’ll surpass us in num bers.”
The feral dogs raced out of the wadi. Barking at cousins loping across the fields from the nearest village, they sped toward the cluster of houses, which promised fresh pickings if not a warm welcome.
“To form so large a coalition, the snake must’ve dangled dreams of vast wealth before the eyes of every chieftain within a week’s walk of the river. I’m surprised at the re sponse, though. They’re usually more independent, not so eager to share hard-won spoils.”
“If we could toy with those dreams…” Bak’s voice tailed off. He tugged the dried seed head off a stalk of wild grass, his thoughts racing. “I’m uncertain of details. But if we could somehow convince them we’ve all along been transporting greater wealth than they ever imagined, riches that will be gone in a day or two…” Bak’s eyes fell on the first of the donkeys carrying Amonked’s personal pos sessions and he recalled how wrong he had been in thinking the inspector a man of wealth. A common mistake, he felt sure. “If we could lead Hor-pen-Deshret to believe Amon ked fears for his life and plans to travel from Askut to
Semna aboard a ship, where no one can lay hands on him or the riches he carries, I’d wager that’d draw that wretched bandit here, just where we want him.”
“Yes!” An evil smile touched Nebwa’s face. “Under or dinary circumstances, he’d never attack us in a spot so tact ically superior and with a garrison close to hand. But tempted by an abundance of treasure and faced with losing it if he doesn’t act, he’ll take the risk. I know he will.” The smile waned. “How’ll we get the message to him without scaring him off?”
“I’ll send Pashenuro back to Rona. The local people won’t help us openly lest they disobey Baket-Amon’s widow, but they should have no aversion to spreading a rumor.”
“Good. Very good.” Nebwa swung around to study the island fortress. “I see no ships moored at Askut. We won’t even have to think up a reason for Amonked to remain with us for the next day or two.”
“When you go over to the island with the inspection party, you must ask Lieutenant Ahmose, who commands the garrison, not only for men and weapons, but for the use of his signalman. Then send a message to Semna, asking that a ship be sent north. If Hor-pen-Deshret hears a vessel is on its way, he’ll be certain the rumor is true.”
“You’re not going with us?”
“I’ve a slayer to snare.” Forming a humorless smile, Bak added, “Anyway, you’ve a loftier rank than I and enough authority to get your way. While you’re overwhelming Ah mose with your importance, think now and again of me, down on my knees, pleading for information.”
“Haven’t you asked every question you can think of?
What new stone do you hope to overturn?”
Bak’s laugh was short, cynical. “Stone, Nebwa? I’d be happy if I could stub my toe on a pebble.”
Bak watched Nebwa, Amonked, and Horhotep climb into the skiff the troop captain had commandeered for the short journey to Askut. Everyone else had remained behind to prepare for battle. He hated to see Nebwa go off alone with the pair from Waset, but surely by this time Amonked had come to realize that Horhotep deliberately baited the more senior officer with malicious intent.
He spun around and walked into the rectangular en campment Nebwa had organized within an incomplete fence of shields, the gaps to be filled later with shields borrowed from Askut. The donkeys, freed of their loads, were being led twenty or so at a time to the river for a bath and a drink. Their eager braying could be heard in the dis tance. Other drovers were organizing baskets and bundles and jars for quick loading, but also in piles strategically placed to serve as obstacles should the tribesmen attack.
Archers and guards formed islands of activity around make shift hearths. Sentries had taken up their posts, with two men hidden partway up the wadi, watching the tribesmen who were watching the caravan. Food and beer were being distributed, and the yeasty aroma of baking bread wafted through the air. The camp was like an anthill, with innu merable small tasks quickly done and gotten out of the way, each man anxious to go on with his training and to help make weapons. Only Nefret, her maid, and Amonked’s rac ing dog had nothing to contribute.
After a much-belated midday meal of bread and dried fish, Bak walked, beer jar in hand, across a camp abuzz with activity. He found Sennefer seated on a low stool sur rounded by stacks of Amonked’s possessions, including the tent Thaneny had given Nefret when the pavilion had been dismantled. The nobleman was knapping flint for use as a cutting edge on some type of weapon. Nefret stood before him, looking annoyed. Probably because he went on with his task, striking the stone with hard, crisp taps all the while she spoke.
“They’ve destroyed the pavilion and what little privacy
I had. I suppose next they’ll want my tent poles.” Seeing
Bak approach, she tossed her head in high dudgeon and stalked off, Mesutu at her heels.
Sennefer stopped his task to watch her retreating figure.
Amonked’s dog, tied close to prevent it from running with the feral dogs, rested its muzzle on his knee and stared up at him, its great dark eyes pleading for affection.
“Nefret’s a beautiful woman,” Bak said, drawing another stool close and sitting down.
“She is that.” Sennefer tore his gaze from her and quickly rearranged his features to hide a sadness Bak barely glimpsed. “She needs a good spanking-or a half-dozen children. Or both. Unfortunately, her father doted on her and Amonked wouldn’t lift a hand against a mosquito. And she’s unable to conceive.”
Bak broke the plug out of the beer jar and took a drink of the thick, bitter liquid. “She loves you, you know.” He disliked revealing personal secrets, but a desperate man must take desperate measures.
“And I love her.”
Bak stared, taken aback not so much by the content of the admission as by the admission itself.
“Yes, it’s true,” the nobleman said with a mocking smile.
“I’ve loved her for years. She doesn’t know, of course, nor will she ever.” He struck the hammerstone against the other, sending a flake flying. “My father urged me to marry a woman of royal blood, and I took too long in deciding I wanted Nefret instead.” A sharp rap and another flake flashed through the air. “By then it was too late. Amonked had taken her as his concubine with my sister’s blessing.”
The dog ducked away from the flying stone and, tail tucked between its legs, came to Bak. Whimpering softly, it nudged his hand with its nose. He scratched its head.
“Did you know of Baket-Amon’s attempt to buy her?”
“I’m one of the few people in this world in whom my brother-in-law confides. As he doesn’t know of my feelings for Nefret, he speaks freely about their relationship.” Sen nefer paused, struck off another flake, added ruefully, “Of ten to my regret.”
Bak sympathized; such a position would be untenable.
“Did you feel any animosity toward the prince for pursuing her to such an extent?”
“Why should I? He was unsuccessful. If he’d per sisted…” Sennefer struck the flint hard, too hard, ruining the flake. “… I’d’ve felt different. But he didn’t. He had no need. He had but to beckon and beautiful young women came running in numbers too plentiful to count.”
“As when you allowed Amonked and other favorites of our sovereign to host hunting parties on your estate?”
“The prince had to show restraint there.” Sennefer flashed a quick smile. “He’d have risked bad feelings if he’d moved onto someone else’s territory, and he was too intelligent a man to allow an enmity to develop between himself and some lofty bureaucrat or nobleman or military man.”
“Was he as careful when he was your personal guest?”
“One of my servants seemed to satisfy him.” Sennefer dropped onto his lap the stones he had been working and picked up a goatskin waterbag lying on the sand beside his stool. “He more than satisfied her. She’ll feel his death acutely.”
“If not during hunting parties, you saw him at his most
… expansive, shall we say… Where?”
“I spent a few evenings with him in the capital, visiting various houses of pleasure.” The nobleman drank from the waterbag, smiled. “I must admit, I couldn’t begin to keep up with him. Women hanging all over him, desirous of his attention. At first I felt inadequate, as if I’d aged before my time, but I finally concluded I’d not like to be so driven.”
“I know of what you speak. I saw him in a house of pleasure in Buhen two nights before his death.” Bak looked back on that night with sadness, but had second thoughts.
Baket-Amon had been happy, and what more could one ask than to end one’s life glad of heart. “The proprietor said he was always greatly in demand because, and I’ll quote her:
‘He was a brilliant lover and not rough like some men are.’ ”
“That I can believe. For a man so absorbed by the pleas ures offered by women, he was singularly prudish. He’d drawn a line beyond which he’d never go.” Sennefer frowned, thinking back. “I can only guess from a few things he said… Nothing specific, but… Well, you once asked if I knew of anything in his past that might have come back to haunt him.”
To taunt, Baket-Amon had said, but Bak feared a cor rection would break the nobleman’s thought.
“In truth, I know nothing. I’ve no more than a feeling, a conclusion based on a few insignificant words. I believe something happened in the past that badly upset him, caus ing him to fear the harsher excesses of the bedchamber.
What the incident was, I’ve no idea.”
Later, walking back through the encampment in search of Minkheper, Bak tried to tamp down a surge of excite ment. The incident Sennefer had mentioned more likely than not had nothing to do with Baket-Amon’s death. Yet instinct told him he had come at last to the path he sought.
Instinct. Amonked would disapprove.
“Hit him hard!” Minkheper yelled. “Don’t addle his wits!
Disable him!”
The young, heavy-muscled guard backed up a couple paces, raised his arm high, leaped at the thick post driven into the ground, and struck hard at the top with a short, stout length of wood cut from a pole that had supported
Amonked’s pavilion. If the post had been a man, the club would have crushed his skull.
“That’s the way it’s done!” Minkheper looked around the ring of men, twenty or so guards, Sergeant Roy, and Lieu tenant Merymose. All had come to learn the rough-and tumble fighting practiced by men of the sea. “Remember, each time you strike with too little force, you’ll soon find your foe back on his feet, ready to fight again. Why not save yourself the added effort? Make each blow count.”
The men looked at one another and nodded, seeing the sense in his words.
Spotting Bak, Minkheper raised a hand in greeting.
“We’re about through for the day, Lieutenant. Anything you wish to add?”
“How’re they coming along?” Bak asked.
The captain clapped the young guard hard on the shoul der. “You saw for yourself how this strapping example of manhood held back his blow. I pray none will be so squea mish when faced with the enemy.”
Merymose came forward, giving Bak a tentative smile.
“I saw you last night, showing the men Sergeant Dedu was training how to use the baton of office for crowd control.
Can you show us, sir? Since the men of the desert have no training in warfare, they’re more apt to attack like a mob than an army.”
“The lieutenant showed us a couple of your tricks, sir,” an older man said. “We’d like to know more.”
The other guards echoed the plea. Bak, who had ceased to be surprised at their eagerness to learn, hastened to agree.
Summoning Roy from among the rest, primarily because the burly sergeant’s disinclination to exert himself made him as stiff and unwieldy as any recalcitrant drunk or rabble rouser, he scooped up a pole cut to the appropriate length and clasped one end in his right hand.
Using the makeshift baton as an extension of his arm, he demonstrated how it could be used to hold off a man at tacking with a dagger or spear and to knock the weapon from his hand. He showed them how to strike a man down, to prod him forward, to lash him across the back or but tocks or legs with the aim of startling or pressing forward or tripping up.
Taking the ends of the baton in widespread hands, he showed them how to push men forward, forcing them deeper into a crowd, causing disarray. How to raise the horizontal weapon above a man’s head and bring it forward and down, entrapping him. How to steal up behind a man, slip the baton over his head, and pull back hard to break his neck.
He taught them a multitude of other actions, other ways to turn the simple object into a deadly weapon. Roy proved a surprisingly apt pupil and at the end, when Bak turned the baton over to him, he repeated every move, every tech nique, proving he had learned well. When Bak suggested the sergeant help teach the evening lessons, Roy dropped altogether his indifference to soldiering.
Bak raised his empty beer jar in salute to Minkheper.
“You’re a valuable man to have around, Captain. Patient, versatile, and able. Not only do you know how to make the best use of available resources, but you know the ways men fight when not guided by reason or training.”
“If I’ve learned nothing else during the years I’ve spent on the Great Green Sea, I’ve mastered the ability to take care of myself, my crew, and my ship.”
Merymose, carrying three beer jars, wove a path through the dozen or so men seated on the ground, putting the fin ishing touches to newly made spears, scimitars, and slings.
Sergeant Roy followed with a basket from which he passed out beer to the toiling men.
Handing a jar to Bak, the young officer said, “Roy is a changed man, sir. I feared his sense of self-importance would make him unbearable, but he’s thoroughly enjoying this new respect you’ve given him.”
“I gave him nothing. He earned it himself.”
Minkheper accepted a jar and broke out the plug. “With a baton in your hand, Lieutenant, you make a formidable adversary.”
“If only I could resolve Baket-Amon’s death as easily as
I use the stick.” Bak rapped the plug on the jar too hard, a measure of his frustration. Instead of the clean break he had intended, the dried clay shattered. “My quest has led me to the houses of pleasure along Waset’s waterfront, and there
I’ve come to a dead end.”
“Would that I could help you,” Merymose said, his regret evident. “He was a good and kind man, one I admired with out reservation.”
“You never accompanied him on his carousing?”
“Never.” The young officer’s regret deepened. “After the one brief time I served as his aide, I hoped he’d summon me. I wanted again to assist him, to run his errands and write his letters, perhaps go with him when he played. But he never sent for me.”
“You never ran into him in a house of pleasure?”
Merymose barked out a cynical laugh. “You must’ve come into this world a man of means, sir. Someone like me, one with nothing but the clothes on my back and the weapons in my hand, must satisfy himself with small and lowly places tucked into out-of-the-way corners of a city.”
“My father was a physician,” Bak grinned. “For lack of wealth, I, too, spent my early years haunting such low places, most likely many of the same establishments you frequented.”
The young officer blushed. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean…”
“I take no offense.” Bak sipped from his beer jar. The brew was thick and warm, scarcely satisfying. “Anyway, from what I’ve learned so far, I suspect you’re too young to help me.”
“You’ve made some progress since last we spoke?” Min kheper asked.
“Not as much as I’d like.” Bak’s scowl turned to a wry smile. “Would that you were as noted a carouser as the prince was.”
“As I believe I told you, I’ve a wife I’m fond of, other young women elsewhere, and…” Minkheper took a sip of beer, grimaced. “… and a cook who makes a far better brew than this. Better, in fact, than any I can get in a house of pleasure.” Someone cursed, drawing the captain’s atten tion. A drover who had cut himself on a sharp flake of flint he had been setting into the cutting edge of a scimitar. “My brother impoverished himself in a search for the good life, a lesson to all who might wish to follow in his footsteps.
I, for one, have no desire to destroy my life so willfully.”
The moment he spoke, regret swept across his face. A family sadness, Bak guessed, a disgrace.
He stood up to look over the wall of shields, out across the fields to the river. In the distance, he saw Nebwa drag ging the commandeered skiff out of the water, while Amon ked watched and Horhotep stood higher on the bank, too important to help, Bak suspected. He prayed his friend’s mission over the past few hours had gone better than his own.
“Lieutenant Ahmose is a reasonable man.” Nebwa splashed water over his shoulders, making them glisten.
“He’ll help us all he can with the resources available to him.”
Bak knelt down in the river and dunked his head under, refreshing himself. “He has no other choice that I can see.”
“He knows of Hor-pen-Deshret, knows what havoc he used to wreak along this stretch of the river. When I told him about the coalition…” A braying donkey drew
Nebwa’s glance downriver, where Pashenuro, Pawah, and a couple of drovers were frolicking in the water with a small herd. “Suffice it to say, he’d rather stand and fight now, with us by his side, than face the swine alone with only one meager company of spearmen.”
“How did Horhotep behave?”
“He kept his mouth shut-for a change.” Nebwa exuded satisfaction. “I think he’s finally beginning to realize he might have to prove himself the warrior he pretends to be.”
Bak thanked the lord Amon for small favors. “Did
Amonked have time to inspect the fortress?”
“We had a war to plan. He didn’t so much as suggest it.”
Standing up, Bak ran his hands over his hair, squeezing out the water. His demeanor grew serious. “We can no longer make plans with blind eyes, Nebwa.”
“I know. We need firsthand news of the enemy.” Nebwa gave his friend a regretful look. “Sending a man south to spy on them will be risky, but we’ve no other option.”
Bak knew what his friend was thinking: few men in the caravan were capable of performing the task with any chance of success. One was far superior to the rest. “I’ll go speak with Pashenuro.”
Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the donkeys and the Medjay in the water with them. “I neglected to ask how his mission went. Did Rona agree to help?”
“Haven’t you heard the rumor, my friend?” With a quick smile, Bak waded farther out in the river, where the current tugged at his legs. “Amonked has brought with him from the royal house a plain wooden chest filled to the brim with valuable jewelry. Maatkare Hatshepsut herself placed it in his hands and assigned him the task of delivering it per sonally to the powerful Kushite king Amon-Psaro. As he fears for his life and the treasure, he’s summoned a ship from Semna to carry him south from Askut.”
Nebwa laughed heartily at the somewhat altered version of the tale he had heard earlier.
Bak slipped into the water and swam downstream. The river was cool and refreshing. The setting sun bestowed upon the sky a glorious golden glow. The early evening air banished the skimpy heat of the day. Too soon he reached his goal, where he drew Pashenuro aside to speak in private.
“I’ve been talking with Nebwa. We’ve a need to learn more of Hor-pen-Deshret’s plans. We wish you to seek out his camp and spy on him and his army.”
“I’d be glad to, sir, but the tongue of the western desert is different from that of my people. How am I to know what they’re saying?”
Bak, who had expected the problem, was reluctant to air the sole solution he had to offer. “Pawah was spawned in the desert, but has dwelt in Waset for the past four or five years.” He glanced toward the slender youth, standing in the shallows, trying to spear a fish. “How much does he remember of his native tongue?”
“We’ve not talked of such details.”
“Let’s ask him.”
They waded past the donkeys, who were leaving the wa ter one or two at a time to nibble on the wild grasses and brush that thrived along the shore. Thaneny and a drover sat naked on a boulder farther downstream, drying them selves and their clothing and at the same time keeping an eye on four crocodiles lying on the sunny beach some dis tance away.
Unwilling to spoil the boy’s fishing, Bak stopped a half dozen paces away, with Pashenuro by his side. “Pawah, can you still speak the language of the desert?”
The youth looked up, startled out of a total concentration.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve had no need for a long time.” He looked harder at Bak, puzzled. “Why do you want to know?
What do you wish of me?”
“I thought to send you with Pashenuro to spy on the desert tribesmen, but you must be able to tell us what they’re saying.”
The boy’s eyes widened, his face lit up. “Oh, please!
Please let me go! The words will come back to me. I know they will.”
“The journey through the night will be hard, to draw close enough to hear them speak will be dangerous. Shall
I risk your life only to learn later that you were unable to do your part?”
“I’m not afraid!” the boy exclaimed. “I risked far worse when I toiled as a servant in a house of pleasure in Waset.
I saw two people murdered! I’ll do anything… Anything at all to help Amonked and Sennefer. I owe them my life.
If they hadn’t taken me in, I’d long ago have been food for the fish.”
“Pawah…”
“Oh!” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified by what he had said, and glanced around to see if anyone else had heard. “I beg of you, sir! And you, Pashenuro.
Please give me your word that you’ll never tell anyone about the murders. No one knows I saw. I don’t want any one ever to know. Please!”
“I’ll tell no one,” Bak vowed. He doubted the boy had any reason for fear, but as he still lived in Waset, silence was wiser than loose talk.
The Medjay echoed the pledge.
“Let me go with Pashenuro, sir. I’ll never get a better chance to repay Amonked and Sennefer. Never!”
Bak studied him long and hard. He had no doubt the youth would do the best he could, but would he remember words he had learned at his mother’s breast? Without him, the mission would fail.
With him, it might succeed.
“All right, you may go.”