“Baket-Amon.” Bak stared, dismayed, at the body stuffed into a storage area under the mudbrick stairway that led to the roof. He had not yet seen the face, but no one could mistake that large, heavy form for anyone other than the prince.
“I fear so, sir.” Psuro, a thickset Medjay with a face scarred by some childhood disease, looked stricken. He had been in charge of the men guarding the house through the night.
Bak would not have been surprised if the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat had been slain, but Baket-Amon?
He had asked the prince to speak with Amonked and he had refused. Now here he was in Amonked’s house and he was dead. Had that plea for help brought about his death?
Imsiba cursed in his own tongue. “The gods have surely turned their backs to us. The prince’s power was slight, with Commandant Thuty sitting in the seat of authority, but he was beloved of his people. What manner of trouble this will cause, I can’t begin to guess.”
“Go tell Thuty of this murder,” Bak said, shaking off the guilt that stood in the way of clear thinking. “Warn him.
And then bring two men with a litter so they can carry the body to the house of death.”
As the big Medjay slipped out the door, Bak knelt for a closer look at the dead man. The floor-level closet in which the prince had been hidden was almost square, about two cubits to a side, and scarcely deep enough for his broad shoulders. Psuro had rolled up and tied the woven mat that had covered the opening when he found the body. Baket Amon was seated, arms hanging down, legs drawn close, cheek resting on his knees, face turned away. He might have been sleeping-except for the blood that had drained onto the rush floormat beneath him, coloring a goodly por tion a dull reddish brown. Bending low, Bak glimpsed be tween the legs the bronze hilt of a dagger entangled by the chain of the gold pendant of the ram-headed Amon.
Back on his feet, he eyed the room, empty except for the mats that had been spread over the floor in preparation for
Amonked’s arrival. The chamber shared a wall with a room the concubine had occupied; the vague scent of perfume hung in the air, not quite masking the metallic odor of blood. The room opened onto the main hallway near the street door. Not directly connected to any other room, this chamber had not appealed to Amonked, who had left it unfurnished and empty. Thus the men who had carried off
Amonked’s belongings had not found the prince hidden in the storage space. Anyone could have entered from outside without passing through any other portion of the house, just as anyone from inside could have slipped into the room unseen.
He studied the encrustation of blood on the mat beneath the dead man and stains that spilled over two edges. Certain the prince, too heavy to move far, had been slain close by, he raised the mat nearest the body. A tiny splash of rusty brown led him to the next mat to the right. Psuro, drawing in a long, unhappy breath, lifted another mat and another, revealing a large, irregular oval discolored by blood, marked in the weave pattern of the mats that had covered it.
Bak looked again at the body. He pictured Baket-Amon as he had last seen him, with two pretty young women seated at his feet and two more awaiting him, offering music and joy. A man who had lived life at its fullest, mowed down in his prime. Shoving away the sadness, the regret, he said, “Let’s pull him out of there, Psuro.”
The mat slid with relative ease across the plastered floor, soon freeing the body from the space in which it had been confined. For some inexplicable reason, it remained upright in its seated position. Bak placed a hand under the chin and turned the head to reveal the face. Baket-Amon, as ex pected. The body was cool, but not yet clammy, nor had it had time to grow rigid. He could not be sure, but he guessed death had occurred sometime around daybreak.
Bak gently laid the prince on the floor. Psuro straight ened out the legs without being asked, a measure of the distress he felt at having failed in his duty. The dagger protruded from the dead man’s lower chest. It angled up ward, piercing the heart with the single thrust. The broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and especially the pendant were finely crafted and of sufficient value to proclaim theft as an unlikely reason for the slaying.
Faced with a task he abhorred, Bak swallowed hard, took hold of the dagger, and pulled it free. The bronze blade was narrow and pointed, about the length of a man’s hand. The hilt, also of bronze, had been slightly roughened to provide a secure grip. The dagger was simple and unadorned, not of military issue but as easily come by. He had seen many similar weapons offered in the markets of Mennufer and
Waset and Abu.
He laid the dagger beside the body, stood erect, and fo cused on Psuro. The Medjay, one of his best and most dependable men, stood stiff and straight, tense, awaiting an interrogation he obviously dreaded.
Bak eyed the stocky policeman, his demeanor stern.
“How long ago did Baket-Amon come to this house?”
“I can’t say for a fact,” Psuro admitted, shame-faced.
“None of us saw him enter.”
“If each and every guard was at his assigned post, how could he possibly have escaped notice?”
The Medjay stared straight ahead. “We were obliged to leave our posts, sir.”
Bak gave him an incredulous look. “All of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you have an explanation. A good one.” Bak’s grim expression, his severe tone promised dire conse quences if no suitable reason was offered.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Psuro licked his lips, shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“At break of day, Amonked’s sailors began to carry away the furnishings in this house, taking what was his back to his ship. Eight or ten youths-apprentices, they were, on the way to their masters’ workshops-came upon them a block down the street. They began pelting them with stones.
The sailors were laden with objects of value they had no choice but to protect. Rather than allow a fight to break out, giving both Amonked and the people of this garrison ad ditional reason for anger, we went to their aid.” The Medjay paused, cleared his throat. “It was then, I believe, that the prince entered the house.”
And soon after, he was slain, Bak thought. “How long were you away from your posts?”
“A few moments at most.” Psuro saw the doubt on Bak’s face and hastened to be more exact. “I raced full-tilt down the stairs and out onto the street, where I found the others already gathering. As soon as the youths saw us coming and realized our purpose, they ran. I sent Kasaya after them to make sure they wouldn’t return, and the rest of us went back to our posts.”
Psuro was not a man to lie or exaggerate, so Bak knew his tale was true and unembellished. The house had indeed been unobserved for only a short while. Too short, he sus pected, for Baket-Amon to enter unseen, and for someone else to follow him inside, stab him, stuff his body into the storage area, and leave the house unnoticed. A theory that did not include time for the angry words that most likely preceded the murder. Some member of the inspection party had slain the prince, he felt sure.
But why? Could the prince have entered the building for some reason other than to beseech Amonked to keep the army on the frontier? Some reason related to the past that had troubled him so?
He turned his thoughts back to Psuro. The knowledge that the Medjays had not strayed for long was no excuse.
They should not have lowered their guard. “You had no idea Baket-Amon was inside?”
“None, sir.”
“What of the people in Amonked’s party?” Not ready to relent, he remained stern. “Were they all in the dwelling when the fight occurred up the street?”
“Yes, sir. Probably because of the early hour. The streets were fairly dark, uninviting to people who have limited knowledge of this city.”
“And later?”
“It was chaos, sir, complete chaos.” Psuro shook his head in wonder. “They were milling around all over the place.
Going into and out of the house, following the sailors down the street to see if any precious belonging had been dam aged in the fight, or to retrieve something they’d already packed and couldn’t live without until they boarded their ship, or to pack something they’d forgotten to stow in a chest or basket.”
Bak eyed the Medjay critically. “You did what you thought best, Psuro, and I’ll not fault you for that. You clearly had no choice but to go to the sailors’ aid. However, you should’ve left at least one man at his post to watch over the house.”
Psuro, as transparent as a pool of clear water, failed to hide his shame. “I know I erred, sir. I’ll never let it happen again.”
“After Baket-Amon is taken away, you may go back to the barracks and get some sleep, you and the others who were posted here through the night. First, tell them what’s happened and pledge their silence. It’s not up to us to add fuel to the rumors which will all too soon spread throughout
Buhen and beyond.”
“Yes, sir.” Psuro swung around, openly relieved his or deal was over, and hurried from the room.
Bak stood over the body, looking at the remains of a man who had two days before called him a friend. He of fered a silent prayer to the lady Maat that Commandant
Thuty would allow him to pursue the slayer and snare him-no matter who or how lofty the killer proved to be.
“I don’t care what Amonked says, Lieutenant.” Thuty paced the length of the courtyard outside his private recep tion room, swung around, stalked back in the opposite di rection. Struck at an angle by the midmorning sun, the open court lay half in shadow, half in brightness, emphasizing the play of his powerful muscles. “He and his party must either return to Buhen, or you must travel upriver with them. The prince was slain in the house they occupied, and someone inside that house took his life.”
Bak, seated on the floor beside a loom on which was stretched a length of white linen, was delighted with
Thuty’s decision that he investigate the murder, although he did not know what else the commandant could in all good conscience do.
“He’ll not come back to Buhen.” Nebwa rearranged a twig nestled in the corner of his mouth. “That’d be too much like an admission that someone he holds close is guilty of wrongdoing.” The troop captain occupied a low stool in the sunny space between two potted acacias.
The court, like the rest of Thuty’s private quarters, was cluttered with toys and reminders of household tasks. A couple of spindles and the loom, a bowl filled with peas that needed shelling, a tunic with a partly mended tear, strips of beef drying on a line stretched overhead. Four black puppies played around a large bowl of water on which floated a half-dozen blue lilies. Their sweet scent vied with the aromas of baking bread and roasting lamb, setting Bak’s stomach to growling.
“Nor will he wish to delay a task ordered by our sov ereign,” Thuty grumbled. “A small matter of murder won’t halt his wretched inspection.”
“He’ll claim-with good reason-that my men allowed their attention to stray.” Bak raised a knee and wrapped his arm around his leg. “I’ll wager he’ll say someone resentful of the inspection entered the dwelling and slew the first man he came upon. A resident of Buhen or someone pass ing through.”
Nebwa snorted. “Baket-Amon? A man known and liked throughout Wawat?”
Thuty jerked a stool away from the wall, swept three leather balls onto the floor, and sat down. “I don’t care what the swine claims. I’m giving you unlimited authority to investigate, and I’ll send a courier to Ma’am with a letter to the viceroy, seeking support I’m sure he’ll give.”
“If Amonked’s as determined to do our sovereign’s bid ding as we think he is,” Nebwa said, “he’ll send a letter of his own to the royal house.”
Thuty shifted his stool to escape the sun’s glare. “A cour ier sailing a fast skiff, traveling night and day, can usually reach Ma’am in two days. The voyage to the capital is more than four times longer, with a lot more distance in which to run into difficulties. By the time fresh orders can be issued by Maatkare Hatshepsut, you…” Baring his teeth in a nasty grin, he pointed at Bak. “… will have laid hands on the slayer.”
Thuty was actually enjoying himself, Bak could see, now that he had an excuse to grab the offensive. “Sixteen or more days coming and going.” He scratched the neck of a fuzzy black puppy that had strayed from its siblings. Un willing to make too rash a commitment, he said, “That might be enough time-if Amonked and his party will an swer my questions with a frank and open tongue. If not…
Well, each day that goes by lessens the chance of success.”
“You’ve never yet failed. You won’t this time.” Thuty delivered the statement like a proclamation, a feat accom plished rather than a difficult task still to be performed.
Nebwa winked at Bak. This was not the first time the commandant had issued such an edict, and as always, such certainty of success troubled him. One day he might fall short of so high an expectation. What would Thuty do then?
“I’ll take Imsiba along,” he said. “He won’t be happy, parting from his wife and her son, but he has the wit to ask the right questions and to see through misleading answers.”
“No. I don’t think so.” Thuty spoke slowly, his brows drawn together in thought, then his expression cleared and he stated, “No, Lieutenant, you cannot take Imsiba with you.”
“But, sir!” Frightened by the sudden sharpness in Bak’s voice, the puppy scurried away.
“He’s the best man for the task,” Nebwa said.
“No.” Thuty’s gaze settled on the husky officer, and a wicked gleam entered his eye. “You, Troop Captain, are the best for the task. You’ve the rank and authority to over ride any man in that caravan except Amonked himself.”
Bak groaned deep down inside himself. He loved Nebwa like a brother, but feared his quick temper and rash tongue.
“Sir!” Nebwa stared at the commandant, appalled. He disliked leaving his wife and child as much as Imsiba did.
“I’ve fresh troops to train, desert patrols to inspect, repairs to the outer wall to supervise, new construction to…”
“The matter has been decided.” Thuty glared at Nebwa, forcing him to abandon the protest, and at Bak to ensure he got no additional complaint. “You’ll depart for Kor im mediately. I wish you to join Amonked’s party before nightfall, and to set out with the caravan at first light to morrow when it begins the long trek south.” He bounded to his feet and headed toward the stairs leading to the first floor. “While you make ready, I’ll dictate a letter to Amon ked, painting a vivid picture of your talents as an investi gator, Bak, and of you, Nebwa, as a man of long experience
with raiding tribesmen. He’s taking too many valuable ob jects not to make himself a target, and I’ll point that out.”
Thuty’s intentions were well meant, Bak knew, but he wanted more than a few fine words on a scroll. Plunging down the stairs at the commandant’s heels, he said, “I’d like to take along a unit of archers or spearmen. They’ll give us added authority and, should we need personal pro tection for any reason, we’ll have them.”
“An excellent idea.” Thuty stopped abruptly at the bot tom of the stairs, swung around, queried Nebwa with a glance. The troop captain knew more of the day-to-day workings of the garrison than the commandant himself, and knew which men could be removed from duty, causing the least disruption.
Nebwa pulled up short to avoid bumping into the pair below. “I’ve twenty archers awaiting reassignment. They can be ready within the hour.”
The trio hastened on down the hall, Thuty to fetch a scribe and dictate his letters, his subordinates to prepare to join a caravan and a party of travelers who would, at best, resent their presence. Bak prayed the commandant’s deci sion to send Nebwa would not prove a mistake. He con soled himself with the thought that Imsiba could conduct a parallel investigation in Buhen, thereby satisfying Amon ked that all was being done that should be-and responding to a tiny nagging fear within himself that he might be wrong in assuming the slayer was one who had dwelt within the house.
“You and Nebwa are going upriver with Amonked?” No fery laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the com mandant slew Baket-Amon just to have an excuse to send men along with the inspection party.”
Bak placed a finger to his lips. “Silence, old woman.
Should a rumor like that spread along the river, reaching the ears of Baket-Amon’s subjects and allies, Thuty would be forced to leave Buhen.”
“What of Amonked? Will the people dare threaten a man of royal blood? One sent to Wawat by Maatkare Hatshepsut herself?”
“Suffice it to say, those twenty archers we’re taking along may prove a godsend.” Settling back on his stool, he raised his drinking bowl, inhaled the tangy aroma of the deep red wine it contained, and drank. “Delicious. I wish I could tarry, but I’m to meet Nebwa at the quay within the hour.”
Nofery’s house of pleasure was quiet, most of its occu pants resting after a busy night. The old man who cleaned was wielding a rush broom in a rear room, sending dust drifting across slender shafts of light falling through the courtyard’s lean-to roof. Bak had found the obese old woman seated on a low stool, examining the many objects she had received during the past few evenings in exchange for the pleasures provided. Spread out on the bench before her were jewelry of small value, items of clothing, woven reed sandals and baskets and mats, fresh and dried fruits and vegetables, pottery dishes and ornaments, several mea sures of grain, and a few small weapons: two daggers, a mace, and a scimitar. The lion lay in a patch of sun across the court, gnawing on a bone, growling softly at times in contentment.
Bak removed the weapons from the bench and laid them on the floor beside his stool. The troops were forbidden to trade away army issue equipment.
Nofery gave him a black look, but she knew the rules as well as he did and could not complain. She had succumbed to greed and lost.
“The prince said, when I saw him yesterday at the quay, that his past had come back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he meant?”
“His past?” She gave an exaggerated shrug, letting him know how indifferent she was to his questions, how much she resented the loss of the weapons. “He was a mere child when I left the capital, one hostage among many who lived and studied in the royal house, rubbing shoulders with the sons of the nobility. I had no way of knowing him.”
“You counted princes among those who loved you.
Don’t deny what I know for a fact.”
Her smile was fleeting, grudgingly given. “They were young, yes, but they were men. This one was a child of six or seven years, a duckling who never strayed from the poul try yard. I never knew of his existence until I came to
Buhen.”
“Too bad. He grew into quite a man.”
“That he did.”
Bak sipped from his bowl, studying her across the rim.
He always thought of Nofery as the least sensuous of women, but something in her voice made him wonder if she, like the young women who toiled in her place of busi ness, had shared Baket-Amon’s passion. Her face gave away no secrets.
“When did you last see him?”
“Two nights ago, when you were here.” With a dramatic sigh, she gave the weapons a final, rueful look, turned to face the bench, and picked up a copper bangle to study it for value. “He left at daybreak, fully sated.”
“He didn’t come back last night? Before he was slain?
He told me he meant to.”
She laid down the bangle and picked up a bronze ring with a mounting of yellowish stone. “I expected him-he seldom missed a night when he was in Buhen-but no, he never returned.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.” The captain of Baket-Amon’s ship, a tall, bony man of middle years, slammed the palm of his hand against the frame of the brightly painted deck house, as if to punish the structure for the prince’s death.
“He was so much a man, so strong and virile, so well-liked by one and all.”
Bak glanced across the quay, where Nebwa and the arch ers who would accompany them upriver were boarding the traveling ship that would transport them south to Kor. They all carried baskets and bundles containing rations, extra clothing and weapons, and whatever else they would need on the long trek south past the Belly of Stones.
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
“None.” The captain walked forward, passing the empty stalls, and sat on the edge of the forecastle, head down, hands between his knees. The cattle had been led away to the animal paddocks, where they would remain until the ship was allowed to sail. “Could the one who took his life have erred, slaying the wrong man?”
“He was a man not easily mistaken for another,” Bak reminded him. The mildness of his manner belied his im patience to be gone.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” The captain looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. “He was big, bigger than most, and as strong as an ox. Was he slain from behind?”
Bak thought it best to be frank. The captain would resent anything less. “He was stabbed in the breast. By someone he knew, I’d wager, someone he trusted who caught him unaware.” He leaned back against the nearest stall. The smell of fresh fodder tickled his nostrils. “Did he stay on board last night?”
“Yes, sir.” The captain cleared a roughness from his throat. “Most of the night he was here, but I can’t say he slept. Oh, maybe an hour or two, but he spent much of the time pacing. Sometimes here on deck, sometimes on the quay where he had more room.”
“Did he tell you what troubled him?” The question was crucial and both men knew it.
“Would that he had.” The captain spoke with genuine regret. “He wasn’t a man to confide in anyone. Not those of us who knew him well, at any rate.” He cleared his throat again, blinked hard. “I’ve heard he talked freely to the women he played with. Have you spoken with any of the girls at Nofery’s place of business?”
“He said nothing to them.” Bak glanced toward Nebwa, busy with the men stowing their gear. “He hinted, when last I saw him, of some unpleasant secret in his past. Do you know anything about his younger days?”
“I’ve been with him barely three years.”
“Long enough to have heard many tales.”
The captain managed a crooked smile. “I know he was a wild one when he was young. And even now…” The hint of humor vanished. “Well, his wives are fine women and his children are as good as can be, especially his first born son. I thank the gods they seldom traveled to Waset with him-or anywhere else, for that matter-so the chil dren were spared the knowledge that he spent his nights engaging in the diversions of the flesh.”
“You disapprove.”
The captain shrugged. “A man’s a man, and I can find no fault with that. He was well-liked by his people and, if anything, his sexual prowess increased his popularity. But enough’s enough, if you know what I mean.”
“He made Ma’am his home?”
“He kept his family there, yes.” A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “Close to the seat of power, he always said, where his sons could be brothers to the viceroy’s chil dren and at the same time learn the ways of Kemet.”
“His oldest son is his heir, he told me. I assume he’ll succeed him.”
“He will, but Baket-Amon’s chief wife will wield the power. The boy’s not yet eight years of age. If he should die before he reaches his majority, she’s borne other sons to take his place.” Again the captain smiled, this more over tly cynical. “She’s a strong woman, and a determined one.
She wants no blood but her own-and that of Baket Amon-in the line of descent.”
In other words, Bak thought, the odds were good that
Baket-Amon had not been slain by someone who wished to take his place as a prince of Wawat. “I pray she shares her husband’s love for the land of Kemet.”
The captain stared at his hands, locked between his bare knees, as if uncertain what he should say. “She’s a wife and mother first and foremost. Now, with her husband dead, she’ll protect her sons and their interests with all the feroc ity of a lioness with her cubs.”
“Could she have slain Baket-Amon, fearing he’d bring into his household a woman he preferred over her?”
“That wouldn’t have been in her best interest, or that of her sons.”