“Go tell Sennefer what I’ve learned and where it’s led me,”
Bak said to Pawah. He flashed a signal to the men on the opposing, southern slope, warning them to take up arms and ready themselves for battle. “Tell him the whole tale, leaving nothing out, then you and he together must carry the word to Nebwa and Amonked.”
“But sir!” Pawah looked devastated. “I wish to stand be side you, to fight Hor-pen-Deshret’s army.”
Bak donned a leather wrist guard, scooped up his quiver and settled it on his shoulder, and picked up the bow. “The task I’ve given you is more important by far, Pawah.” He spoke with an edge of impatience. “If you and I both were slain in the fighting, no one would ever know the name of the guilty man. The others must be told. With so many men aware of the truth, at least one will surely survive.”
“You speak as if we’ll lose the battle.”
Picking up spear, shield, and staff, Bak plunged downhill to the flat rock, the boy close on his heels. “I believe we’ll win, but this is no local skirmish. Men will die.”
“Sir…”
Bak dropped everything but bow and quiver onto the rock. “I want no more argument. You must do as I say.”
A tribesman spotted them, shouted to his mates, pointed.
Others looked up the slope, not overly concerned about what they evidently believed to be a lone soldier and his servant, out on a hunting trip. Two or three raised their bows as if to strike. Bak knelt, making himself smaller, and pulled Pawah down beside him, thinking to project a pose of innocent curiosity. The tribesmen chose in the end to save their arrows for game more formidable.
“Tell Sennefer, Nebwa, and Amonked to say nothing to
Minkheper. I myself will face him after the battle.” Bak, keyed up and eager to get on with the contest, rubbed the mirror on his kilt, brightening its already shiny surface. “As you and Sennefer make your way to the caravan, stay at the top of the slope, close to the cliff face. Keep yourselves safe from the men of the desert. Now move!”
“But…”
“Pawah! Men who disobey on the field of battle are sent to the desert mines, a fate I’d not wish on anyone.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth swallowed hard, taking the threat seriously, but he could not conceal his pleasure at being treated as a man. Pivoting on a heel, he raced diagonally up the slope to the boulder behind which Sennefer hid.
As the boy ducked out of sight, Bak signaled the archers across the wadi. Pashenuro repeated the signal for the men on the north slope, where Bak stood. Archers rose to their feet, appearing as if from nowhere, and let fly their arrows.
Several men fell on the trail below. A tribesman shouted an alarm.
Bak raised his weapon and sent an arrow speeding down ward. A man’s knees buckled and he dropped, the missile protruding from his back. The archers rearmed and arrows again rained down on the enemy, dropping a dozen or more men. Those slow to realize they were under attack yelled out in anger and dismay. They all scattered, too many men seeking shelter behind the too few boulders fallen from the cliffsides. A third wave of arrows flew and a fourth, drop ping more men to the earth.
Bak glanced toward Sennefer’s hiding place. The noble man, peering out from behind the boulder, signaled that he understood what he must do. An instant later, he and Pawah darted up the rocky slope and vanished in the shadow of a crevice in the cliff.
Confident they would carry out their mission or die try ing, Bak focused on the tribesmen below. He had never considered himself much of a bowman, but standing high above the wadi floor, he dropped one man and another and another. The archers, more expert than he, felled the enemy as if they were cutting down grain in a ripe field. With missiles flying from both sides of the wadi and a minimum of shelter, with their shields an inadequate defense, the tribesmen could not protect themselves. Fallen men moaned and whimpered and pleaded for help, some injured, some dying, and no one to aid them.
The enemy bowmen fought a losing but valiant battle, running, ducking, dodging, providing no firm target while firing off their weapons. Bak saw two of his archers struck, one in the side, another in the arm, neither wound serious enough to force them from the battle.
Someone below, a man with a red cloth braided into his hair, a tribal chief most likely, shouted an order in a tongue
Bak did not understand. Twenty or more tribesmen grouped around to form a block. Some of the men encircled the group with shields; those safely inside the ring fired back at the men on the slopes.
One of Bak’s archers fell, an enemy arrow protruding from his breast, and lay still and quiet. Another dropped to his knees, an arm hanging useless. A third felled man pulled himself behind a fallen rock, dragging a leg. Though he had to be in pain, he turned his bow horizontal to the ground and continued to fire until he emptied his quiver.
He dropped two men, one who fell with a yelp of pain, the second in silence.
Three archers down out of twenty. Far too many in too short a time. The deadly barrage must be stopped. Bak raced across the slope to where his best archer stood, his quiver almost empty. “Slay the leader, Huy, the man with red showing in his hair.”
Huy eyed the block of men, looking doubtful. “I’ll try, sir.”
Bak ran on, snatched up the quiver of the dead man, and sped toward the man with the shattered arm. Realizing his purpose, the wounded archer held up his quiver, offering missiles he could no longer use. Bak thanked him with a quick smile and raced back toward Huy, who had taken shelter in a waist-high gouge in the earth, cut by runoff water from the infrequent rainstorms in the area.
As Bak reached the cut, an arrow sped by, slicing the flesh of his left thigh. Dropping awkwardly into the ditch, he flung the two quivers at the archer. Blood gushed from his leg, but a quick check revealed a flesh wound too shal low to cause concern. As fast as he could, he tore the hem from his kilt, made a pad, and tied it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Each movement of the leg irritated it, making it burn-a small price to pay, he decided, and thanked the lord Amon for sparing him from worse.
The number of arrows in the donated quiver dropped to a dozen, a half-dozen. As Huy robbed it of its contents, he spat out oaths in a slow and regular manner, an incantation of sorts that followed the rhythm of his effort.
Pashenuro flashed a signal, letting Bak know the last stragglers had come down off the desert. The time had come to close the gap behind them, cutting them off from the sandy wastes they knew so well. Bak relayed the mes sage, this time whistling a signal so loud and clear it echoed the length of the watercourse.
As the sound died away, Huy armed his bow and held it steady, glaring at the block of men below. Suddenly he released the string, launching an arrow. It sped straight and true, striking a man who scarcely showed himself. The man stumbled, briefly splitting apart the barrier of shields. Snap ping out a curse that may also have been a prayer, Huy let fly the last arrow his dead comrade had bequeathed him.
One head vanished from among the others, a body crum pled to the ground. Red showed in the hair. The wall of shields wavered and the block broke apart, leaving each man to his own resources. They ran down the wadi, leaving behind their fallen chief.
Huy wiped his brow, vastly relieved. Bak clapped him on the shoulder and climbed out of the ditch. The tribesmen were retreating in earnest, he saw, heading toward the val ley, trying to escape the deadly shower of arrows and reach the main body of the desert force where they could stand and fight with some chance of success. They fought as best they could, firing on the run at those who had ambushed them. Men who were injured but mobile staggered along with them. The more seriously hurt and the dead were left behind. Lying on the wadi floor, the wounded men moaned or cried out for help or struggled to get up and away so they would not be taken prisoner.
A trickling stream of tribesmen turned their backs on their fellows and headed up the wadi, seeking safety and freedom on the open desert. They promptly fell into the arms of Sergeant Dedu and the archers who had blocked the trail, ending all hope of escape.
Bak whistled again. His spearmen-about half of Amon ked’s guards-came out of hiding, joining the archers on the slopes, more than doubling the size of Bak’s small army. Other than the few men who remained behind to round up enemy deserters and the walking wounded, they pressed the enemy hard, harrying them, rushing them into the valley.
Where, if all went well, they would charge in among
Hor-pen-Deshret’s forces, disrupting the fighting and caus ing consternation among the men attacking the caravan encampment.
Bak led his troops out of the wadi and onto the valley floor. Many of the men they chased were loping across the higher ground where animals normally grazed. Others ran through fields knee-deep in ripening vegetables and wheat, partly trampled by the raiders who had preceded them.
Grim-faced men were pouring out of the village and across the fields from nearby farms and hamlets. A large pack of dogs accompanied them, those from the village and the fe ral animals that had traveled so long with the caravan.
Each of the men carried a spear or scythe or some other tool that could be used as a weapon. Bak had no delusions.
These men had not come to help the caravan. They had come to save as much of the year’s crop as they could. Any tribesmen wishing to wade out to the island to steal the donkeys would have serious reservations about passing through that hostile gathering.
“Stay out of the fields,” he shouted, praying his men, whose lust for battle had grown to major proportions with their success in the wadi, would choose to hear him.
A second shouted order sent his archers running, hunched low, toward a jagged finger of land that projected from the escarpment. Eight or ten enemy archers stood atop the rise, their backs to the approaching men, firing arrows into the caravan encampment.
Bak ran on across the trampled grass and weeds, leading his spearmen to battle. Though he tried to remain rational, he was as exhilarated as they.
Ahead, the tribesmen who had swarmed out of the wadi rushed full tilt in among Hor-pen-Deshret’s main force, which appeared from a distance poised to charge the bar ricaded caravan. Excited and boastful shouts wavered and died. A wave of consternation and dismay rose, crested, waned. An angry voice speaking a tongue of the desert rose above all the rest, haranguing the men. Hor-pen-Deshret,
Bak guessed, urging his army to look forward toward vic tory, not back to a partial defeat.
He had expected them to have long ago charged the car avan, to be in the heat of battle. They must have awaited the remainder of their force coming through the wadi. Or had they re-formed after being rebuffed?
He glanced quickly toward the elevation where the en emy archers had stood. None remained. His own archers were climbing the slope to replace them. They had dis patched the others while he looked elsewhere. Satisfied that that source of danger no longer threatened, he scanned the fields to the north, beyond the enemy force. A white cloth draped over an acacia branch told him Lieutenant Ahmose and his troops were in position and waiting.
To the west, the lord Re hovered above the horizon, leav ing the caravan in the shadow of the escarpment. About an hour of daylight remained. The battle in the wadi had lasted less than an hour, yet had seemed as long as a day. The men of the desert must shortly make their move, before the light began to fail, forcing them to retreat.
Bak whistled, signaling his men to charge. Ready, wait ing, eager for action, they raced along in his wake. To the north, a trumpet blasted, Ahmose ordering his troops to battle. Soldiers rose from a grain field as if lifted from the earth by the gods and dashed toward the enemy.
A harsh yell ahead and the desert warriors surged for ward, screaming like wild men to make themselves seem fiercer. They were halted momentarily by the wall of shields, which bristled with spears, felling many among the first wave of men. Those behind pressed the leaders on, forcing them through the barrier. Shields fell or were swept aside, and Nebwa’s small force pulled back to regroup, to face the enemy again among the high stacks of jars, sacks, bags, and baskets of foodstuffs and gear, Amonked’s fur niture, piles of sheaved hay, every object the donkeys had carried upriver.
With more than half the enemy among and beyond the fallen shields, with their blood-curdling savage yells spo radic and individual, many voices silenced by the fierce fighting, Bak and his men fell upon their rear left flank while the troops from Askut struck the right flank. Sounds of the melee filled the air. The thud of wood against wood.
The grunting of struggling men. The thunk of weapons striking tough, tight-stretched cowhide. Growled oaths and loud, excited shouting. The clang of bronze spearpoints.
Screaming and moaning. The thump of something solid striking softer matter.
Stirred by the excitement, the action, the dogs ran in among the contestants, teeth bared, hackles raised. Bak feared at first they would mistake friend for foe, and some times they did, but the vast majority set upon the enemy, nipping heels and buttocks and hands. Harassment, not a bold confrontation.
Thin dust rose in puffs around the feet of the struggling men. The stench of blood and sweat was strong. Forgetting the stinging in his thigh, the blood seeping from beneath the makeshift bandage, Bak parried thrusts with spear and shield, downed one man, disarmed another.
He fought hard, sweat dripping in spite of the evening chill. His spearmen, spread out among the enemy with Ah mose’s soldiers, were battling with a skill and enthusiasm none would have dreamed of a few days before. He was proud of them. They could return to the capital with Amon ked, holding their heads high.
Bak heard something behind him, a man’s harsh breathing. He pivoted, striking an enemy warrior at waist level with the long shaft of his spear, knocking him off balance, deflecting the blade of a dagger. The tribesman grabbed the shaft to steady himself and held on. Bak jerked one way and another, trying to wrest the weapon free.
Abruptly the man released his hold and crumpled to the ground. Seshu, standing over him, raised his mace in a tri umphant salute and swung away to face a fresh conflict.
Muttering a hasty prayer of thanks, Bak pressed forward.
Inside the fallen wall of shields, he found his long spear ungainly, his thrusts hampered by the narrow, twisting aisles between the high stacks of equipment and supplies.
Most of Nebwa’s troops had already abandoned their spears to fight on with smaller weapons. The tribesmen had been forced to follow suit. The congestion had been Nebwa’s idea, and a good one. What hampered the men of the car avan in a mild way was bound to confuse the men of the desert-and distract them with innumerable desirable ob jects.
Bak rammed his spearpoint into the ground beside a pile of fodder and drew the staff from his belt. He had always found a shield awkward to manage, but since he had no armor, he dared not give it up.
Using the staff as a club, he knocked an ax from the hand of one man, broke the arm of another, clouted a third on the head. As they fell back, others replaced them, men more wary of drawing close. One threw a dagger, whose flight Bak stopped with the shield. A yell-Horhotep’s voice-swiveled him around and he knocked a mace from a warrior’s hand. As he downed the man with a second blow, another leaped at Horhotep, meaning to lay him open with a scimitar. Bak lunged, knocked the scimitar away, breaking the man’s hand, and hit him hard across the lower legs, felling him like a tree.
Horhotep raised a hand in thanks and an instant later sank his dagger into the side of a man raising his mace to brain a drover. Blood gushed. The adviser bent double, vomited, and dived back into the fray. Bak was surprised and pleased. Under duress, Horhotep was proving himself a worthy officer.
He glanced quickly toward the sun. Close to a half-hour of daylight left. How could time pass so slowly? His arms and legs felt weighted with lead, his breathing was labored.
Sweat poured.
A shout drew him to Sergeant Dedu and a drover re claiming a half-dozen vats of newly made beer from tribes men who had dropped their weapons so they could carry off the brew. An easy victory.
Among the shifting, struggling throng, he spotted Mery mose, side-by-side with Sennefer and Thaneny. They were fending off a small but concentrated attack by a half-dozen tribesmen led by a painted and befeathered warrior intent on reaching-and most likely taking as personal trophies Amonked’s and Nefret’s carrying chairs. He offered a quick prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that the nobleman had arrived unhurt, added a plea that he and the young officer and the scribe would survive the battle. Thaneny was awk ward in his movements, slower than he should be, but he thrust the harpoon he carried with deadly accuracy.
A tribesman plunged through a tangle of men and rushed
Bak with a spear. He sidestepped the weapon, knocked it from the man’s hand, and shoved him toward Sergeant Roy, who tapped the man on the head with his mace, gave Bak a quick grin, and leaped aside to fend off a man with an ax. Roy also was showing brave colors.
“Bak! Behind you!” Nebwa bellowed.
Bak pivoted, deflected a harpoon aimed at his midsec tion, and raised his staff to clout the tribesman. His foot came down on something wet and slid out from under him.
He fell hard on his back, his shield half beneath him. The force of the impact knocked the staff from his fingers. A vicious smile spread across his attacker’s face and he leaped forward to finish the task he had begun. As he raised the weapon above Bak’s breast, his mouth and eyes opened wide, the harpoon slipped from his fingers, and he toppled forward, falling on Bak with such force he knocked the breath from him. A long dagger protruded from his back.
Minkheper stepped close and jerked the weapon free.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
Bak nodded. “I owe you a debt I doubt I can ever repay.”
The captain rolled the body aside and offered his hand.
“No debts of honor, I pray. The very thought makes me ill.” He pulled Bak to his feet, wiped the sweat from his brow, smiled grimly. “Will this battle never end? I’m bone weary.”
“Even Nebwa looks tired,” Bak said, nodding toward his friend.
The troop captain, Amonked, and a guard were fighting a motley group of tribesmen bent on taking all they could carry from a stack of chairs, stools, and woven reed chests.
One sat on the ground clutching his bloody side among a cascade of fine white linen spilling from one of Nefret’s chests.
“Maybe I can break the impasse,” Minkheper said and strode in their direction. Blood dripped from the long blade of his dagger, making him look like the murderer he was.
Bak picked up his staff and shield. His debt to Minkheper lay heavy in his heart. How could he take the captain before
Commandant Thuty or, more likely, the viceroy, and charge him with the murder of Baket-Amon? How could he plead for the death of a man who had saved his life?
With the sun squashed hard against the horizon, the num bers of men fighting within the encampment had dwindled.
The enemy who remained were more intent on looting than risking their lives for a war that looked to be lost. The heart of the battle had shifted to the open grazing land. The tribesmen still on their feet and well enough to retreat now found themselves facing not only the men of the caravan and Ahmose’s troops, but the farmers Hor-pen-Deshret had terrorized for so many years.
Bak wove a path through the piles of supplies and equip ment, stepping around the dead and wounded. A few of his own men lay among the enemy, who had fallen in large numbers during the battle. Both friend and foe watched him pass, the few he knew with pained smiles, the rest with looks pleading for help or wearing the blank expression of exhaustion. He summoned one of Amonked’s porters, go ing among the wounded with poultices and bandages, and ordered him to help as best he could.
Thinking to rejoin the battle on the open plain, Bak laid aside his staff with some reluctance and picked up a spear leaning against a high pile of grain sacks, their contents dribbling out of holes pierced during the battle. He swung around-and found Hor-pen-Deshret blocking the narrow aisle. They both stared, equally shocked by the unexpected encounter. The tribal leader was no longer the proud, strut ting warrior. Sweat stained his leather kilt, armlets, and anklets; his broad collar hung askew; the bright feather drooped from his hair. Bak had no doubt he looked equally worn and tattered.
Shaking off his surprise, Bak bounded toward the enemy chief, thrusting his spear. Hor-pen-Deshret parried the at tack with his own spear and lunged forward. Bak took a quick step back and raised his shield to deflect the deadly bronze point. His opponent, assuming the backward step a sign of retreat, bared his teeth in a triumphant smile and inched forward, moving in for an easy kill. Or so he thought.
Both men lunged, giving their opponents no time to think. While the tribal chief thrust forward, Bak swung his weapon sideways, using all the force he could muster, driv ing Hor-pen-Deshret’s blade into a stack of water jars. With a loud crash, three of the tall, heavy cylindrical containers shattered, gushing water and unbalancing the stack. Thirty or more vessels tumbled to the ground and began to roll, striking Bak and his opponent in the ankles, unbalancing them. Both men lost weapons and shields in a futile strug gle to remain upright.
They scrambled to their feet and waded through the still rolling jars to the edge of the encampment. Bak, like his opponent, searched frantically for an undamaged shield and spear among those that had fallen during the initial attack.
Of the few remaining shields, most had been slashed or broken. Neither man could find an unbroken spear. As tired as he was, Bak dreaded close combat-but he had no choice. He jerked his dagger free of its sheath.
The tribal chief drew a similar weapon and bounded for ward. Bak ducked away. The pair danced to left and right, out of arm’s reach, feinting, testing each other’s speed, strength, vigilance. More than once they clashed, each hold ing his opponent’s weapon at a distance. Hor-pen-Deshret was the more muscular man but, thanks to the lord Amon and a hardy sense of survival, Bak drew on a strength and cunning he did not know he possessed.
When neither man could bear the tension any longer, they backed off to circle each other again, sweat pouring forth, gasping for air. Bak’s legs grew heavy, his dance became a shuffle. Hor-pen-Deshret, the feather in his hair broken and bedraggled, looked equally tired, but his move ments seemed lighter and quicker. Bak knew that if he did not soon conquer the tribesman, he would lose the battle.
And his life.
Desperately in need of a spear, or any weapon that would place him at a distance from his opponent, he stepped back among the shields lying on the ground. Allowing his atten tion to stray for a mere instant, he spotted the shaft of a spear, its point broken off. As Hor-pen-Deshret lunged to ward him, he scooped it up and slammed it against his arm, shattering the bone. The weapon fell from the tribal chief’s hand. He gave Bak a look of utter incredulity.
And dropped to his knees in supplication.
Bak stood with Amonked and Nebwa, watching Ahmose and the troops from Askut rounding up what was left of the tribal army. The local people looked on, their eyes glit tering with satisfaction. About a hundred men of the desert had survived unscathed, more than half were injured to a lesser or greater degree, and the remainder were dead, gath ered together and laid out to be buried on the verge of the desert at daybreak.
“Such carnage,” Amonked said, shaking his head sadly.
“What will their families do?”
“Some will survive, the rest will starve,” Nebwa said.
“As always.” He sounded cold, but a tightness in his voice betrayed his true feelings.
Amonked led them to the short line of fallen archers, guards, and drovers, fourteen men of the caravan who had died at the hands of the enemy. Pawah was on his knees at the end of the row, his head bent over the prone body of
Thaneny. The scribe had fallen to an enemy spear toward the end of the fighting.
The youth looked up, unashamed of the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I loved Thaneny like a brother. I shall miss him always.”
Amonked knelt beside the boy and placed an arm around his shoulders. “No man will ever take his place.” He laid his free hand on the scribe’s shoulder and his voice thick ened with emotion. “He was my right hand, not my servant but my friend.”
Bak turned away, unable to understand the whims of the gods. Thaneny had come so close to death in the past, over coming unspeakable odds. Now here he was far from his home, his life taken in battle. One who had died because he refused to stand back and take refuge while men he knew fought to the death nearby. A man courageous to a fault. Where was the reward for a life lived so valiantly?
“You know, don’t you?” Minkheper, standing at the river’s edge, glanced at Bak, who had come up beside him.
“You slew Baket-Amon.”
“Someone remembered my brother, I assume?”
Bak ignored the question. He had promised Pawah si lence, and he would keep that vow. “Menu deserved to die.
The prince did not.”
“True.” Minkheper stared at an irregular strip of torch light falling across the faintly rippled surface of the water, golden reflections cast by a guard on the island where the donkeys had been left. “My brother, much younger than I and given all the advantages by our father, lived a life of utter depravity. He shamed my parents while they lived and he shamed me. Death by violence was inevitable.”
Chilled by the cold night air and a lurking fury mixed with sadness in Minkheper’s voice, Bak crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did he always take pleasure in hurting others?”
Minkheper knelt and let the water flow around his hand, caressing his fingers like a lover about to lose its beloved.
“He always had a cruel tongue, which he used at first to pummel my mother and father and later his wife Iset. As far as I know, she was the first he struck with his fist. After that… Well, as the years rolled by, a fire seethed within him, making him less than human.”
Bak tried to read the seaman’s face, but the night was too dark. “You knew of his cruelty and did nothing to stop him?”
“I knew of the abusive way he spoke to our parents, and when Iset sought a divorce, I was told the reason. He made no secret that he wagered, drank himself witless, lay with innumerable women. As for the rest…” Minkheper tore his hand from the river, stood up, and expelled a bitter laugh. “My only excuse is that I was too far away for too long to learn the truth.”
He paused, stared out toward the island. “When I came back to Waset to settle his affairs, I found nothing to settle.
He’d lost everything our parents left behind, including property he and I held together. If Baket-Amon had not already taken his life, I’d have slain him myself.”
“Were you ever told that the prince slew him because he found him with a young woman he’d just beaten to death?”
“So Thutnofer said.”
Turning their backs to the river, they walked up the dark path toward the caravan encampment, which was ablaze with light. Bonfires reached for the sky, giving sight to the men tending the wounded. With so many in need of care, they had long since run out of poultices and bandages, but
Nebwa and Ahmose had demanded from the nearby villag ers additional lengths of cloth and medicinal herbs.
“Menu’s death was justified in the eyes of men and the gods,” Bak said, “yet you were driven to exact revenge.
For the love of Amon, why?”
“As the eldest son, I was honor-bound to slay the man who took his life.”
“No matter how just or unjust the cause.” Bak’s voice was flat, uncritical, yet all the more censorious for its lack of reproach.
“Yes.”
Sorrow flooded Bak’s heart. Minkheper was as much a man of Kemet as Amonked or Nebwa or Commandant
Thuty. Nonetheless, he had felt obliged to obey the deities of a far-off land, gods who demanded that a good man’s life be taken in exchange for that of a brute. Unlike the lady Maat, who required that justice be done, never seeking a man’s death for no good reason.
“Did Baket-Amon face you in Buhen, unaware of your purpose?”
“He knew what would happen should we meet.” Min kheper took a deep, long breath. “The day after I learned the truth of my brother’s death, I called upon the prince. I warned him of my duty, saying that the next time I laid eyes on him, I must slay him.” Another deep breath that reeked of sadness. “We parted amiably, with the regret of men who could have been as close as brothers under other, better circumstances.”
“He was fortunate you were a mariner who sailed distant seas much of the time.”
Minkheper seemed not to hear. “We spent the interven ing years far apart. In the rare instances when we inadver tently walked the streets of the same city, we went out of our way to avoid each other. Then fate, or perhaps it was the will of the gods-your gods or mine, I’ll never know placed us both in Buhen, both in that wretched house where
Commandant Thuty quartered us. I was forced to avenge my brother, like it or not, and Baket-Amon did nothing to stop me.”
Silence descended, accompanying them through the darkness to the edge of the encampment.
“You tried to slay me twice,” Bak said.
“I’d heard of your reputation as a hunter of men. I had to make an effort to save myself.”
“But you saved my life today.”
Minkheper’s wry smile was clearly visible in the light reaching out from the nearest fire. His bright hair glowed as if from an inner sun. “I thought I wanted to survive, to reach the lofty rank of admiral for which I’ve strived for so many long years. In the end, though, faced with a choice of holding my head high or bowing it in shame, I couldn’t bring myself to slay a man I’ve come to like and respect.”