“Is it true?” Sergeant Pashenuro called, hurrying along the riverbank toward the ship. “Has Baket-Amon been slain?”
“By the beard of Amon!” Bak stopped midway down the gangplank that spanned the space between the vessel and the bank against which the craft was moored. He stared aghast at the Medjay. “Has word spread already?”
“It’s true then.” Pashenuro, a short, broad man whose intelligence and bravery came close to equaling Imsiba’s, shook his head in consternation. “The people of this land will not take the news lightly.”
Realizing he was barring the sole path off the ship, Bak hurried on down the narrow board, leaped a patch of mud, and hustled the sergeant off to the side, out of the way.
“Has Amonked heard?”
“I’ve seen no sign that he has.”
Bak disliked surprising anyone with bad news, but per haps it would be to his advantage to approach the inspector unaware. “How did you get word?”
“A trader came from Buhen an hour ago, setting men to whispering. Speculating. He knew nothing substantial, but with you turning up, and Nebwa and the men, they’ll guess the tale is true.”
Bak accepted the inevitable. What other choice did he have? “Does Amonked believe you and Dedu to be Seshu’s drovers?”
“Yes, sir. If he’s noticed us at all.” The sergeant raised a hand in salute to Nebwa, striding down the gangplank.
“The caravan is large. A man can easily get lost among its members.”
The archers followed the troop captain, each man carry ing his long bow, heavy leather quiver, and supplies. Their loads ill-balanced, they rushed one by one down the board, teetering, laughing with the good humor of men released from the tedium of garrison duty.
“Have you managed to befriend anyone in the inspection party?” Bak asked.
“Pawah, Amonked’s herald. A boy of twelve or so years.” Pashenuro smiled. “He likes animals so he comes often to see the donkeys. And as I’m a Medjay from the eastern desert and he a nomad from the western sands, he thinks of me as kin.”
Waving good-bye to the ship’s master, Bak and the ser geant fell in beside Nebwa and strode up a path that ran along the riverbank. The archers straggled after them. They passed two local trading ships evicted from the quay in favor of Amonked’s flotilla. Few men remained on board, their crews no doubt at the harbor, gawking at the lofty arrivals. The fishing fleet could be seen far out on the river, seining.
Bak looked ahead at the mudbrick walls of Kor. Subsid iary to Buhen, the fortress was used as a staging post for caravans and as a place where military units traveling through the area could camp out and rest in safety. He came often to Kor, summoned by scribes charged with collecting tolls or soldiers who maintained order. Never before had he noticed how shabby the structure looked. The towered walls had reverted to the natural deep brown of the mud bricks, mottled by patches of white plaster in spots shel tered from the wind and blowing sand. The battlements were eroded, with time softening their once crisp, sharp edges. Several of the projecting towers had been rebuilt, but many were cracked and a few leaned at odd angles.
Kor was ideal for its purpose but what, Bak wondered, would Amonked think of it? What would a man fresh from the capital, with its well-maintained and brightly painted buildings, think of this dilapidated old fortress?
“The lord Amon must be watching from afar, made speechless by his storekeeper’s excess!” This from Nebwa, looking down from the battlements, watching a long line of sailors file into the harbor-side gate, burdened with sleep ing pallets, portable furniture, and innumerable woven reed chests.
Hands on the parapet, weight resting on his arms, Bak looked down upon the fortress’s interior. He felt awe and disgust in equal measure. Royal envoys often traveled south with showy gifts for Kushite royalty, but nothing like this.
“Could Amonked not leave anything behind?”
Nebwa crossed the walkway to stand beside him. He made no comment. The scene below spoke for itself. The space within the walled rectangle, usually quiet and scantly occupied, teemed with life. Donkeys milled around an area fenced off at the far end, braying, raising a cloud of dust.
Vast piles of fodder and sacks and baskets and jars stood in and among buildings whose roofs had long ago fallen and whose walls had collapsed. Additional supplies were being piled with the rest by men unloading the last string of donkeys to arrive from Buhen.
A white linen pavilion stood in the center of an open stretch of sand normally used for the formation or disband ing of caravans, and several of Amonked’s guards were erecting small tents beside the larger structure for the in spector’s party. The remaining guards were setting up nearby a more casual camp for themselves, scurrying around like ants but not as well organized. Nebwa’s arch ers, more efficient by far, had settled down near a cluster of intact buildings, their preparations for the night com plete. The barracks and four houses, all remodeled over the past few years to shelter the scribes and troops posted at Kor, provided an oasis of quiet among the bustle.
Bak eyed the pavilion, exasperated. “Did he not talk to any of our sovereign’s envoys before he left the capital?
They surely would’ve told him that less is best when trav eling through this barren land.”
“He didn’t bring his wife or as many servants as I’d have expected.” Nebwa’s tone grew wry. “Maybe he thinks he’s sacrificed enough in the name of common sense.”
Bak spotted Amonked and Lieutenant Horhotep walking along the base of the far wall, escorted by the young lieu tenant who commanded the post. “The inspection should be finished soon.”
“Amonked will have heard we’re here. We’d better go see him.”
They walked to the towered gate, where zigzagging lad ders would take them to ground level. There they stopped for one last look from on high.
“Seshu must be tearing out his hair,” Nebwa said.
“Can you blame him?”
Nebwa grinned at his friend. “You grew to manhood near
Waset. I’d think you’d be accustomed to the flaunting of wealth and power.”
What Bak was accustomed to was Nebwa’s teasing, which in this case he chose to ignore. “There’s a critical difference between the frontier and the capital, a difference
Amonked has failed to see. No risk is involved in the land of Kemet. No danger. No desert tribesmen who’ll be tempted by what, to them, are vast riches.”
Bak and Nebwa wove a path through the half-erected tents, their goal Amonked, who stood with Horhotep out side the pavilion, watching the officer in charge of Kor hurry toward the barracks like a man escaping some dire fate. Red and white pennants fluttered in the breeze from atop the center post, and a tall, leggy white dog, a breed used by the nobility for racing and hunting, lay stretched out in the sun near the entrance. Neither the inspector nor his military adviser noticed the approaching officers.
“This fortress is an abomination,” they heard Horhotep say, “an insult to our sovereign. Peasants could make better use of it, crushing the bricks and spreading them across their fields as fertilizer.”
“The gods made a poor choice,” Bak murmured, “taking
Baket-Amon’s life and sparing this one.”
“A large number of caravans seek shelter here each year.” Amonked glanced around, as if trying to imagine the space during normal usage. “I must look at the fortresses upriver before making a firm decision, but Kor may have some value. If another quay were added, for instance…”
“No.”
Amonked gave his military adviser a sharp look, dis pleased, Bak suspected, by so curt a rejection of his thought.
Unaware, Horhotep looked toward the desert-facing gate, openly disdainful. “To be fully functional, the walls would have to be rebuilt from the ground up, as would the build ings. Since Kor is used for shelter, not defense, the gain wouldn’t be worth the cost.” He swung around, saw Bak and Nebwa, frowned. “What’re you two doing here? Did not Amonked make it clear he wants no interference from
Buhen?”
Nebwa’s countenance darkened, he looked about to spit out a barbed retort-at the very least.
Bak, no less angry at the affront, squeezed his friend’s shoulder, curbing him, and stepped forward. He spoke to
Amonked, paying no heed to the military adviser. “We’ve come on an urgent errand, sir.” He displayed the scroll
Thuty had prepared. “We must speak with you.”
The inspector could not miss the gravity on Bak’s face.
He swung around and raised the cloth that covered the pa vilion’s entryway. “Very well. You may come in.”
Bak gave Horhotep a pointed look. “I see no reason to trouble the lieutenant at the moment.”
If Amonked noticed the flush of anger on his adviser’s face, he chose to overlook it. “Go to our ship, Horhotep.
See that the vessel’s been cleared of our possessions and send it back to Buhen.”
Horhotep flung Bak a look of impotent fury, pivoted on his heel, and strode away. Bak could understand the advi ser’s anger; he would be equally upset if Thuty sent him on so menial an errand. He wasted no time on sympathy, thinking instead of the abrupt dismissal, which offered un expected reassurance. So far, it seemed, Amonked was holding his adviser at sufficient distance that the man’s in fluence might be contained within reasonable bounds. Or was the inspector simply retaliating for the earlier rejection of his thought?
The pavilion was a haven of comfort in the midst of frontier austerity. A gentle breeze ruffled the cloth at the entrance and filtered light seeped through the linen roof and walls. Embroidered linen hangings divided the space, al lowing for privacy at the back. Thick mats covered the floor, soft linen pallets and portable stools provided seating, and small tables and woven reed chests offered surfaces for game pieces, drinking bowls, and scrolls. A god’s shrine stood against one wall, draped with a cloth to give privacy to the deity inside-the lord Amon, Bak assumed. Furniture and hangings were far more abundant and elegant than any available to the officers of Buhen. Small wonder that Seshu was upset. How many donkeys would be required to trans port the pavilion and its accouterments?
“Prince Baket-Amon dead.” Amonked, dropping onto a stool, looked taken aback. “Slain in the house where we spent the night.”
“Yes, sir.” Nebwa sat down on another stool. Horhotep’s demeaning errand had cheered him considerably. “He en tered the building at daybreak, we believe, and was stabbed a short time after.”
“I’m appalled, as any man would be,” Amonked said,
“but I can’t help wondering why you’ve come to me.”
Bak, standing near the entryway, thought he heard a woman quietly sobbing beyond the hangings that divided the pavilion. The concubine, he guessed. “As you know, sir, my Medjays were watching the dwelling. They saw no one enter or leave.”
“If I’m not mistaken, young man, your Medjays left their posts to ward off an attack on the sailors who were carrying my furnishings to our ship.”
Bak hoped the warm feeling in his cheeks was not a telltale flush. “The house stood unwatched for only a few moments.”
“I appreciate the aid they gave my men-a brawl would’ve been most unseemly-and the uncommon speed at which they dealt with the difficulty.” Amonked’s voice sharpened. “But you can’t ignore the fact that not a man among them remained behind to keep watch on our quar ters.”
“Baket-Amon had to’ve entered the house at that time,”
Bak said, steering the discussion back to the murder, away from the inescapable fact that his men had erred.
“And the slayer with him.”
“No one other than a god could’ve gone inside with him-or followed him-and still have had the time to slay him, hide his body, and leave unseen.” Bak spoke with certainty, his demeanor set, allowing for no rebuttal.
“I see. You’re determined to lay blame on a member of my party.” Amonked laughed, a sound flat, hard, cynical.
Loud enough to stifle the sobbing behind the hanging.
“How convenient, Lieutenant. For you and for Comman dant Thuty.”
Bak bristled. “I mean to lay hands on the guilty man, and on no one else. If he’s one who came with you from the capital, so be it.”
“You can’t change the facts, sir,” Nebwa stated. “Baket Amon was slain in the house where you were staying, and the odds greatly favor a man inside as the slayer.”
“This inspection will be difficult enough, with every man’s hand set against me merely because I’m doing my duty. I’ll not let you add an accusation of murder, giving further excuse for failure to cooperate.”
Amonked was speaking primarily of the military, Bak suspected, giving little thought to the people of Wawat, who might choose to be equally obstructive.
He stepped forward and handed the inspector the scroll
Thuty had prepared. Tamping down his irritation, he said,
“As you’ll see when you read this document, Commandant
Thuty has no intention of interfering with your task. You may return to Buhen if you wish. If not, Troop Captain
Nebwa and I will travel upriver with you, taking no part in your inspection. The slayer of Prince Baket-Amon must be snared, and this is the place to search for him.”
“I’ll not return to Buhen.” Amonked eyed the scroll with distaste. “It’s you who should go back. You’re far more apt to find the killer among the prince’s friends and ac quaintances-men there at the scene of the crime-than here with us.”
“My sergeant, Imsiba, who remained behind, will leave no field unplowed. If the slayer’s in Buhen, he’ll find him.
In the meantime, we’ve come to search what I believe is the more fertile field.”
Amonked’s mouth tightened, locking inside further com ment. He ran a thumbnail under the seal, snapping it apart, and untied the string around the scroll. Unrolling the doc ument, he began to read. As his eyes traveled down the several columns, his scowl deepened.
“This is an intrusion I greatly resent.” He tossed the scroll onto a low table, where it rolled off the edge and fell to the ground. “I have the authority of our sovereign, Maat kare Hatshepsut, and I have her complete confidence. I can and I should send the pair of you back to Buhen.”
Bak could well imagine Thuty’s anger should they re turn. All who stood before him would suffer, especially the two officers who had failed to stand up to Amonked. His thoughts raced. How could they forestall banishment from the caravan?
He said, “When a man is slain outside of Buhen and I’m called upon to seek the one who took his life, I usually travel with two Medjays. Yet this time Troop Captain
Nebwa came and we brought with us a unit of archers.
Have you not asked yourself why?”
“To make a show of strength, I would assume.”
“For whose benefit?”
The inspector, too shrewd to walk into a verbal trap, stared hard at the officers, offering no answer.
Bak scooped Thuty’s letter off the ground and laid it on the table. “Baket-Amon was a prince much liked by the people who dwell along the Belly of Stones. Whether or not he was slain by a member of your party-and I’m con vinced he was-blame will be laid at your feet. Without a strong military presence from Buhen and an active inves tigation into the prince’s death, the inspection party might well be attacked and vanish forever.” He was exaggerating.
At least, he thought so. Nebwa must have agreed, for he looked straight ahead, carefully avoiding Bak’s glance.
Amonked, looking thoughtful, picked up Thuty’s letter and read through it a second time. Unconvinced, or only partially so, he said, “All right, you may stay. Both of you.
But I must warn you: the least interference in my inspection and you’ll return to Buhen.”
Bak breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “A decision you’ll not regret, sir. If the local people believe you’re sup porting our investigation, you’ll be far more apt to win their confidence.”
Nebwa stood up. “Now that that’s settled, I must go speak to Seshu. He’ll need to know of Baket-Amon’s death and of the twenty-two additional men who’ll be traveling south with the caravan.”
“I’ll be frank with you, sir,” Bak said, watching Nebwa hurry toward the animal enclosure.
Amonked knelt outside the pavilion entryway to scratch his dog’s head. “More forthright than before? I find that hard to believe.” His voice was as dry as dust.
Was the man teasing? Bak wondered. Could he possibly have a sense of humor? “Two days ago, I pleaded with
Baket-Amon to go see you, to explain how important the presence of the army is to the land of Wawat. He refused.
Then I saw him yesterday and asked him a second time.
Again, he refused. I believed that to be his final word, but when I found him lifeless in the dwelling you occupied, I couldn’t help but think he reversed his decision.”
“And you feel responsible for his death.” Amonked stood erect; a humorless smile flitted across his face. “I can assure you, you’ve no need. He didn’t come to see me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I never left the house until we departed for the harbor.
I spent much of the time in the room next to the one where he was slain. Mistress Nefret, my concubine, was unhappy, begging to return to Waset. Anyone who entered the build ing would’ve heard her-and probably me.” Amonked grimaced his distaste. “Between her tantrum and a confu sion among the sailors as to the order in which to take the furnishings and to which ship they should be delivered, I found it impossible to remain calm and soft-spoken.”
Though Amonked seemed always to keep himself under tight control, the explanation made sense. The inspection party was not cared for as well as one would expect, with a minimum of servants and inefficiency and ineptitude on the part of sailors and guards. The latter, in fact, had not yet managed to set up camp and the lord Re was rapidly approaching the western horizon. Even now, Bak could hear them squabbling as to the best way to ward off snakes: incantation as opposed to laying a rope on the ground around each man’s sleeping mat in the belief that the rep tiles would not cross the low barrier.
“How well did you know Baket-Amon?” he asked.
A pack of feral dogs raced across the campsite, barking at a cat speeding just out of harm’s way. Amonked’s dog shot to its feet. The inspector grabbed its collar before it, too, could give chase. The animal whined and struggled to get away, but he held on tight. “He was an envoy to the royal house. I saw him when he came to pay his respects to our sovereign or when he reported to the vizier. We were by no means friendly.”
Bak thought he heard a faint harshness in the inspector’s voice, a tension, but his face revealed nothing. “He spoke of his past coming back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he might’ve been talking about?”
“I’ve never been good at guessing what lies in another man’s heart, Lieutenant.” Amonked swept aside the cloth covering the entryway and stepped inside, half choking the struggling dog. “I must dictate the results of our inspection of this fortress while my impressions are fresh.”
Bak held his ground. “If I’m to lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I’ll need the cooperation of every member of your party. Will you see that they help me, sir?”
“I’ll tell them of your mission, yes, and I’ll suggest they cooperate. How willing they’ll be, I have no idea. That, I suspect, will be up to you.” Amonked dropped the cloth behind him, leaving Bak standing by himself in the sun shine.
Quashing an urge to shake the inspector until his teeth rattled, Bak strode toward the commanding officer’s quar ters. He had to send a message to Thuty, reporting that he and Nebwa had Amonked’s reluctant permission to remain with the caravan and investigate the murder. As for the inspector himself, what could he report? The man was like a boulder, solid and difficult to move. That he and Baket Amon had crossed paths in the past, Bak was certain, and neither man had come away content. Could their differ ences have been so serious that Amonked-cousin to Maat kare Hatshepsut herself-had slain the prince? Bak shuddered at the possibility.
“I hate this place! This wild and unruly land of Wawat!”
Nefret, Amonked’s concubine, blinked back angry tears.
“Amonked is a good and gentle man. One who’d never knowingly hurt anyone. I can’t think why he wished me to come.”
Bak had trouble holding back a smile. He had a good idea why the inspector had brought the young woman along. About twenty years of age, she was one of the most sensuous creatures he had seen since coming to Wawat close on two years earlier. Her firm breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips, covered but not concealed by a white linen sheath, vied in beauty with those of the lady Hathor.
Large black eyes, long thick lashes, and wide, seductive lips adorned an oval face framed by a mass of black hair that cascaded around her shoulders. He prayed she’d stay inside the pavilion. Should the troops assigned to Kor see her, he feared a riot. Aware Amonked was sharing his eve ning meal with the commander of Kor, he had decided he must meet the other members of the inspector’s traveling household, especially the woman. The sobbing he had heard earlier hinted at discontent, and discontent often led to a failure to guard one’s tongue.
“His traveling ship is a prison. A benevolent prison, to be sure, but, oh, so confining!” She drew her legs beneath her, fluffed up the mound of pillows at her back, and re clined against them. “He equipped the vessel with every comfort, but to sail up the river day after day, with no diversions except a few ugly fortresses and a multitude of villages too small and poor and filthy to visit was an abom ination. I thought, once we reached the viceroy’s residence in Ma’am, that I could at least talk to a few women and maybe visit a decent market.” Her laugh was bitter, close to a whimper. “How wrong I was.”
“Mistress, please…” The maid, a girl of twelve or so years whose youthful form had just begun to blossom, hov ered at Nefret’s side, a mirror in one hand, an ivory comb in the other. A small wooden chest containing cosmetics and hair ornaments stood open on the mat at her feet.
“Go away, Mesutu.” Nefret frowned at the girl. “Go fetch us some wine. Some honey cakes, too.”
The girl threw a helpless look at the scribe seated on the floor at the opposite end of the pavilion, laid mirror and comb beside the box, and hastened through the wall of fab ric that separated the sleeping quarters from the more public area.
“The viceroy’s wife was not there. She’d sailed north to the fortress of Kubban to assist her daughter in childbirth.”
Nefret picked up the mirror, glanced at her image, and screwed up her nose in distaste. “The women who were there talked of nothing but their dreary lives in that dreary fortress.” She laid the mirror on the floor mat, sniffed back tears. “As for Buhen… Well, it was no better. I had to remain in that dreadful house.” She flashed a bitter look at the scribe. “And now, I must stay here. Where it’s safe, they tell me.”
The scribe stared unhappily at the scroll spread across his lap.
“After his meeting with Commandant Thuty,” Nefret went on, “Amonked issued an order that we not socialize with the officers and their families while he inspects the fortresses along the Belly of Stones.” Her voice rang with frustration. “I can’t imagine what prompted him. Did they quarrel?”
“Mistress Nefret.” The scribe, whom Bak guessed at thirty or so years, laid aside the scroll, struggled to his feet, and crossed the room, his gait heavy and off-center. Unlike most men of his profession, he wore a shorter, thigh-length kilt, probably to ease the effort of walking. A monstrous scar ran from his right ankle up his lower leg and deformed knee, to vanish beneath the garment. “You must not speak out in anger. You’ll hurt no one but yourself.”
“Can’t you ever leave me in peace, Thaneny?” She shot to her feet, glared. “Must you constantly repeat Amonked’s words like the pale shadow you are?” Bursting into sobs, she ran from the room.
The scribe looked as if he had been slapped. “She’s very upset, sir. Lonely. Afraid. She doesn’t mean half of what she says.” A blind man could see he doted on the young woman.
To no avail, Bak feared, if the contempt she had dis played were sincere. “Most women come to Wawat with their husbands and children, and they tolerate this life for a year, two years, sometimes three, because they must.
She’s fortunate she has to remain only a few weeks.” He had no doubt Nefret could hear through the flimsy wall of hangings. His words would offer no comfort, but they might set her to thinking of others besides herself.
“She shouldn’t get so angry with Amonked. From the day he took her into his household, he’s cherished her, plied her with gifts, surrounded her with beauty and comfort.”
Thaneny looked away and spoke in a wistful voice. “Would that I could someday give a woman all he’s given her.”
“Has not the lord Amon given you far more than material objects?” Bak asked, thinking of the misshapen leg.
“My life, yes. I thank him each and every day for sparing me.” Thaneny spoke as if reciting a litany, deeply felt but too often uttered. “Nefret can’t find it in her heart to un derstand, but I never cease to thank that most benevolent of gods for allowing me to serve a kind and generous man, one who doesn’t look away each time I walk into the room.”
Bak was aware that Thaneny’s labored gait would arouse a pity few men wished to acknowledge. Especially since the scribe was a handsome man still in his prime, with well formed facial features, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular arms. If Amonked could look at the man and not see the deformity, he had at least one redeeming quality.
“Thaneny…” A slender youth of about twelve years peeked into the room. “Oh, we’ve a guest. I’ll come back later.”
“Come in,” Bak commanded the already retreating fig ure.
From the deep ruddy skin and dark, tight curls, he guessed the boy was a child of the western desert, the her ald Pashenuro had befriended, another individual who must journey across the desert sands for no good reason. A child brought along, like the concubine and her servant, not out of necessity but to satisfy Amonked’s personal needs. And how was Thaneny to travel? A man whose every step was a struggle.
The boy turned back, his eyes wide with curiosity. He held four ostrich feathers, their long shafts rising far above his bony shoulder.
“You found something for her.” Thaneny gave the youth a grateful smile. “I thank the lord Thoth.” Thoth was the god of writing and knowledge, the patron of scribes.
“I found a merchant who’s come from far-off Kush.”
Guilt vanquished the boy’s sunny smile and he glanced around as if afraid he had been heard. “I know Amonked told us not to stray, but when I asked the drover Pashenuro where I could find something for mistress Nefret… Well,
I had to go aboard a ship outside the walls of Kor.” His eyes leaped toward Thaneny’s face and an anxious smile touched his lips. “The feathers were worth it, don’t you think? She’ll like them, won’t she?”
“How can she not?” The scribe took them from the boy, held them at a distance, nodded. “Yes, they’re lovely. No woman could ask for better.” The pleasure left his smile and resignation entered his voice. “Now I fear she’ll wish to visit that ship.”
“It’s gone. The captain wanted to reach Buhen before full dark.”
Thaneny gave the boy a relieved smile, then his eyes flitted toward Bak. “Pawah, this is Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police. Pawah is Amonked’s her ald.”
The boy gaped. “A police officer? Really?”
Forming a smile, Bak asked the boy, “Have you always lived in Kemet, or was Wawat the land of your birth?”
“I was born here, sir, into a tribe that roamed the desert.
Five years ago, when a drought struck and many waterholes dried up, my father traded me to a merchant so my brothers and sisters wouldn’t starve.”
Thaneny laid his arm across the boy’s shoulder as if to shelter him. “The merchant took him to Waset and traded him to the owner of a house of pleasure. Later, Sennefer bought him, saving him from unspeakable cruelties, and passed him on to our household. He’s been with us ever since, a part of our family.”
Bak ruffled the boy’s hair, distracting him from his un pleasant past. “Are you glad to be back in Wawat?”
“It’s all right.” Pawah shrugged. “As long as I can serve my master, I’m happy anywhere.”
Bak eyed the pair standing before him. He wondered how they would feel about Amonked a week or two hence, after spending the days marching across the hot, barren des ert and the nights trying to sleep in cold, drafty tents.
They’d not be so charitable, he suspected.
“What am I to do, sir?” Pashenuro asked. “Return to
Buhen? Or travel upriver with you?”
“You’ll remain with the caravan.” Bak had been unde cided as to where the sergeant would be better placed, but a brief visit to the animal enclosure and a close look at the mounds of supplies that had to be transported had given the answer. “Seshu is greatly overburdened. He needs a strong right hand, and that you must be. Say nothing of your true task to anyone in Amonked’s party. As long as they believe you to be a drover, they’ll speak with a far less guarded tongue when you’re near.”
“Yes, sir.”
They sat with the archers from Buhen, who were seated around a rough mudbrick hearth to absorb the small amount of warmth the dying fuel offered. The men passed around large cooking bowls containing braised duck and vegeta bles, a feast to send them on their way upriver. The fire in the hearth oft times flared, making the barracks wall behind them glow, but its light was transitory, its heat negligible.
“Maintain your friendship with the youth Pawah. I doubt he’s had any contact with his family since he was taken from the land of Wawat, but be watchful anyway. I don’t want the child tempting his desert kin with tales of Amon ked’s wealth.”
“I understand, sir.”
Bak raised his voice, catching the attention of the men around them. “You all know Pashenuro as a policeman, but to Amonked and all who travel with him, he’s a drover.
The truth must never be aired.”
“I’ll personally geld the first man to betray him.” Nebwa, closer to the hearth, scanned the circle of archers, his eyes catching the flame, burning with promise. “Do I make my self clear?”
The men murmured assent.
“What am I to do, sir?” Sergeant Dedu asked.
Nebwa reached into a bowl and tore the wing off the remains of a duck. “I’ve not traveled through the Belly of
Stones for several years, so I’ve lost touch. This journey will give me a chance to perform an inspection of my own, to check on the state of repair of the fortresses, the needs of the officers and men, their morale.” He tore the wing into two parts and gnawed off a bite. “I know Seshu could use you, too, but as I’ll be otherwise occupied much of the time, you’ll be of more use as a military man, standing at the head of these archers. You’ve some experience with the bow and you’ve spent many long weeks on desert patrol, so you know how dangerous this land and its people can be. Especially if Hor-pen-Deshret has come back. Frankly,
I doubt the rumor is true, but you never know.”
Hissing a sudden warning, Pashenuro shoved himself backward to vanish in the dark. Two men strode out of the gloom beyond the hearth, Lieutenants Horhotep and Mery mose. How much they had overheard, Bak could not begin to guess.
“What do we have here?” Horhotep looked around the circle of men, his lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “Good food. Good company. Entertaining tales designed to bolster courage and self-worth. What good fortune for us. May we join you?”
Pashenuro’s hearing was as sharp as a jackal’s, Bak knew. With luck, this cursed military adviser had been so preoccupied with planning his own performance that he had heard nothing but the march of his own two feet.
Horhotep glanced at Bak and surely saw him, but his eyes came to rest on Nebwa. He looked down his nose at the more senior officer, assuming a superiority designed to chafe. “First you try to frighten Amonked with talk of im minent attack by Baket-Amon’s subjects, who in truth are nothing but impoverished farmers. Now you speak of rag tag tribesmen as an army. What do you take us for, Troop
Captain? Children who’ll believe any tale you throw at us?”
Lieutenant Merymose stepped back a pace, as if distanc ing himself from the sharp-tongued adviser.
Nebwa stood up, teeth bared in an unfriendly smile. “If we come upon an enemy during this journey, even if only one man with a pole sharpened to a point for use as a spear,
I pray to the lord Horus of Buhen that you’ll be the first to face him.” He spat on the ground, reinforcing the contempt in his voice. “You with your proud bearing and unproven courage. How will you fare when tested?”
“You swine!” Horhotep, forgetting himself, throwing off his haughty indifference, reached for his dagger, drew it.
An archer slipped back, out of range of the flickering light cast by the fire. He took a bow and quiver from among several leaning against the barracks wall and armed the weapon. Two other men followed his example. Aware the situation could rapidly go out of control, Bak scrambled to his feet.
Nebwa, tut-tutting at the show of temper, slid his dagger from its sheath and spat again, barely missing his oppo nent’s foot. Horhotep, his stance, his weapon ready to strike, stood as if glued to the spot.
“What’s wrong, Lieutenant?” Nebwa goaded. “Have you no stomach for combat?”
“Nebwa, no!” Bak shouted. He lunged toward the ad versaries, placing himself between them.
Merymose, leaping forward at the same time, caught hold of Horhotep’s weapon and twisted it out of his hand.
“You cur!” Horhotep screamed at the younger officer. “I could’ve taken him with ease! You’d no right to touch me!”
Merymose stumbled back as if struck and stared at the dagger in his hand. He seemed surprised to find it there, appalled at what he had done.
“Lieutenant Horhotep!” Bak’s voice rang out, hard and cold like the crack of a whip. “Go back to your tent and calm yourself.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
Bak pointed toward the archers standing in the shadows, weapons at the ready. “Do you have any idea, Lieutenant, how close you stand to death?”
Even in the uncertain light, they could see the color drain from the adviser’s face. He jerked his dagger from Mery mose’s hand and spun around to vanish in the dark. Mery mose flung Bak a look of apology and hurried after his superior officer.
Nebwa muttered a string of curses, blowing off steam.
The men growled vain threats. Bak bowed his head and offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that neither he nor
Nebwa nor their men would live to regret this small victory.