“What in the name of the lord Amon did I do with my sandals?” Sergeant Dedu grumbled.
“Mine are missing, too,” an archer said, rubbing his arms to stave off the early morning chill.
“And mine,” another man said, lifting the edge of his sleeping pallet to look beneath it.
Four other archers reported a similar loss.
Nebwa planted his fists on his hips and scowled at the men, his patience made thin by the need to arise so early.
“When did you last see them?” he demanded.
“I took them off last night when I lay down to sleep,”
Dedu said, “and I set them beside me so I’d have no trouble finding them.”
The other men agreed that they, too, had kept their foot wear close by.
Nebwa could no more hide his impatience to have the problem over and done with than the moon could hide in a clear night sky. “They’ll turn up. They’re bound to. In the meantime, go barefoot.”
The lord Khepre, not yet peering over the eastern hori zon, painted the sky a silvery white that rapidly turned a brilliant gold. A gentle breeze fanned the air, holding off the sun’s warmth, feeding the chill. The lead donkeys of the caravan struck out along the trail, with others falling in line as soon as their loads were in place. The animals that would bring up the rear trotted in from the river, a few laden with water jars, the rest bare-backed. The feral dogs, wet and boisterous, sped past them to race alongside the donkeys already on the move.
Throughout the previous day, the caravan had traveled across the broad, gentle slope between the river and a long sandy ridge that formed a horizon off to the right, blocking their view of the open desert beyond. As the afternoon waned, the ridge had drawn closer, ending in a high, sheer precipice that overlooked a seemingly unending stretch of rapids. Seshu had halted men and animals to set up camp a short distance north of the steep drift of windblown sand that rose up the formation, near the point where the trail crossed the ridge.
Now, while the lead animals plodded up the slope and disappeared over the crest, Amonked, Minkheper, Horho tep, and Sennefer prepared to climb the promontory to in spect the watch station located on top. The post was crucial to the defense of the frontier, offering a panoramic view of river and desert in all directions. Bak prayed the inspector would recognize its value.
“Come, Lieutenant,” Nebwa said. “We’ve another in spection to accompany.”
Bak studied the coarse-featured officer with a mixture of fondness and suspicion. “What excuse will you give to day?”
Nebwa’s expression grew bland, overly innocent. “I saw farmers when I bathed in the river this morning and I told
Amonked so. He thought it best that you and I stay close.”
Bak, who had bathed in the same still pool as Nebwa and at the same time, gave his friend a wide-eyed look of exaggerated shock. “You would tell our sovereign’s cousin a falsehood?”
Nebwa turned dead serious. “If you don’t have time to besiege a fortress, you have two choices. You can march your army on, praying the men sheltered within its walls don’t attack you from behind-or you can find a way to get inside by stealth.”
“Impressive,” Captain Minkheper said. “Far grander than the rapids above Abu.”
Bak stood at the edge of the precipice, chilled by the breeze that ruffled his hair and the hem of his kilt. He looked down upon a tortured landscape of rock and water, a labyrinth so wild and cruel it might have been created by denizens of the netherworld. He had been here before, and each time the river had shown a different face. Low water or high made no difference; he felt the same awe each time.
“Only at the highest flood can a ship travel these rapids,” he explained, “and only with the aid of men with stout ropes, pulling the vessel upstream along channels of rush ing water or holding it in place as they let it down. North of Iken, when that’s impossible, the ships are dragged alongside the river on a slipway built across the sand.”
“Granite. A stone difficult to work in the best of condi tions. And the conditions here are appalling.”
“Yes, sir.” Bak made no further comment. Better that
Minkheper decide for himself how difficult and hazardous it would be to excavate a canal through the Belly of Stones.
Together they studied the harsh and wild river below.
Water gushing smooth and fast where its course was free, foaming and eddying and cascading where interrupted, murmuring and singing and splashing. Hundreds of sepa rate channels flowing around a multitude of black glistening islets. A few full-blown islands supporting trees and brush and rough grass and sometimes a tiny house, with fruits and vegetables growing in pockets of soil, goats nibbling wild vegetation, and waterfowl swimming in the shallows.
“How long is this stretch of rapids?” Minkheper asked.
“I’ve not seen it from end to end with my own eyes,”
Bak admitted, “but they say a four-hour journey by foot.”
Minkheper whistled, thoroughly impressed.
Satisfied the captain understood the impracticality of heir sovereign’s plan, Bak left him at the edge of the prec ipice to further mold his thoughts. He walked up the ridge to join the inspection party.
“How many men are posted here?” Lieutenant Horhotep asked in a sharp voice.
“Ten.” The sergeant in charge of the watch station paused-long enough to attract notice, not long enough to earn a reprimand. “Sir.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened. He slapped his leg with his baton of office. “Ten men for ten days. Another ten for ten more days. On and on forever. I’d think the commander of
Iken could find a better occupation for so many men.”
The sergeant, a short, powerful man of twenty-five or so years, threw a disgusted look Bak’s way. They had met before and shared a mutual regard. “Without prior warning, how can the troops assigned to man the walls of Buhen or
Iken make the necessary final preparations to hold off the enemy?”
“What enemy?” Horhotep swung his arm in an arc en compassing the boulder-strewn river and the barren, rolling desert to the west. Other than the caravan, made small by distance, and a flock of geese flying low over the rapids, not a creature stirred in any direction.
“I’ve heard tales that an old foe of ours has come back from off the desert. Hor-pen-Deshret by name. A man to be reckoned with. All who remember him fear him.”
“Tales!” Horhotep snorted. “Rumors designed to plant fear in the hearts of men who know no better. Gossip cre ated by men who wish this land to remain a ward of the army.”
Nebwa threw the adviser a look of profound disgust, clamped his mouth tight, and stalked off along the ridge.
Amonked eyed him thoughtfully, then walked to a reed lean-to built against a crude mudbrick hut. The shelter stood among the ruined walls of several older buildings that hugged the ridge not far below the summit. “You live rough, I see.”
The sergeant hurried to the inspector’s side. “We need no more than a roof over our heads, sir, and the supplies brought daily by the desert patrol. We’ve plenty of water close to hand and each other’s company to stave off bore dom.”
“Ah, I see!” Horhotep said, walking up behind them.
“Ten men are posted here at all times, not out of necessity but so you’ll always be entertained.”
The sergeant, his face flushed with fury, balled his hands into fists. With a mighty effort, he restrained himself.
Sennefer leaned close to Bak and murmured, “If Hor hotep survives this journey, the gods will have blundered exceedingly.”
“I’d be pleased to serve as the instrument of their wrath.”
Amonked, who may or may not have heard, turned to his advisor. “I understand there’s a trail along the ridge,
Lieutenant. I wish you to take that route to the caravan.”
He paused, awaiting a response. When he received none, his voice sharpened. “You’ve seen all you need to see here,
Lieutenant. I suggest you leave at once.”
Horhotep pivoted, hiding his expression, and strode away, his steps quick and stiff, his back as rigid as a tree.
Surprised by the order, Bak looked closely at Amonked.
As usual, the inspector’s face revealed nothing. Was he growing weary of his adviser’s abrasive manner? Or, better yet, had he begun to mistrust Horhotep’s continual fault finding?
The inspection party caught up with the caravan within the hour. Amonked and his companions hastened to rejoin
Nefret near the foremost donkeys, where the air was cleaner. Bak and Nebwa lagged behind, talking to the drov ers. The archers were strung out along both sides of the caravan, well out of the dust and far enough away to see approaching strangers. The feral dogs roamed up and down the line or wandered off into the desert or down toward the river.
With the ridge no longer restricting their view, they could see the vast undulating plain to the west, a barren land covered with golden sand from which protruded dark, isolated islands of rock. To the east, beyond gentle mounds of windblown sand, they caught glimpses of green and spotted flashes of silver. The sparse vegetation, the gleam ing water relieved the eye and reassured both men and an imals that the life-giving river was close by, a place to drink one’s fill, to rest, and to bathe.
The serenity was short-lived. Soon after the inspection party returned from the watch station, men appeared with out warning, taking up positions at the edge of the desert, where sand met the river’s verge, watching the caravan slowly trudge past. They stood at a distance, to be sure, but were ever-present, nagging reminders of how strongly the people resented Amonked’s mission.
Midday came and went. At infrequent intervals the desert trail drew close to the river, giving the members of the caravan a better look at those who watched them. One man or two or three, sometimes a family, sometimes the entire population of a tiny hamlet. They stood quietly, watching, their immobility and silence more fearsome than threats.
Seshu drew Bak aside and pointed toward the distant figures. “Those people are beginning to erode the confi dence of my drovers. Can you not do something to make them stay home?”
Bak gave him a regretful smile. “You’ve been making this journey for years, Seshu. You know what I face. They may be acting in unison, but they’ve no single man to lead them.”
“Who is Prince Baket-Amon’s heir, do you know?”
“His firstborn son, a child eight years of age.”
Seshu groaned. “And the mother to serve as regent.”
“Yes.” Bak eyed the small vague images standing along the river. “Baket-Amon kept her in Ma’am and there she’ll remain until his body is prepared for the netherworld.” That groan troubled him. “I’ve no doubt she’ll soon hear what these people are doing. The question is: Can she do any thing to stop them and would she if she could?”
“She has the power, but she’ll do nothing. She doted on her husband.”
Bak looked hard at the caravan master. “Are you telling me she’ll encourage the people to make a display against
Amonked, not because she resents his mission but as a way of demanding that her husband’s slayer be brought to jus tice?”
Seshu spread his hands wide, shrugged. “Her way of thinking is not my way. Nor yours.” He saluted the drover of an approaching string of donkeys, their backs piled high with fresh hay. “Are you close to learning the name of his slayer?”
Bak sneezed and sneezed again. “I’m no further along today than I was the morning I learned his ka had fled.”
Seshu muttered a curse. “Two days ago, I’d have sworn not a man along the river would raise a hand against a caravan, mine or any other. But today? Well, I’d make no wagers now.”
Staving off a feeling of futility, Bak sought out Sennefer, whom he had yet to question about Baket-Amon. He spot ted the tall, slender nobleman, walking alone on a parallel course to the caravan. He loped across the sand to intercept him. “What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asked, falling in beside him.
“I’ve grown weary of donkeys and drovers and dust, and of the constant bickering between Nefret and Amonked.”
Sennefer stared regretfully at the rolling sands to the west.
“One would think, with so large a landscape surrounding us, that it would be easy to find a place to be alone. Un fortunately, I’m a stranger to the desert. I fear I’d get lost.”
“I’d not go far without a guide,” Bak admitted.
Sennefer turned to look at the river and the farmers watching the caravan. “I’d like very much to bathe. Would I not be safe if you went down to the water with me?” He gave Bak a disarming smile. “I saw you and Nebwa re turning this morning, and you came to no harm.”
Bak, not sure how serious the nobleman was, returned the smile. “Seshu intends us to camp tonight inside the walls of Iken even if we must march through an hour or two of darkness. There you can bathe in safety.”
“Will we not be resented at Iken as we were in Buhen?”
“You will be, yes, but Commander Woser will see that you remain unharmed.” Bak was on the verge of saying “as
Commandant Thuty did,” but Baket-Amon’s murder in the house the inspection team had occupied made the adden dum questionable.
The nobleman bowed his head in reluctant acquiescence.
“I understand you knew Prince Baket-Amon,” Bak said.
“I knew him and liked him. I shall miss him.” Sennefer spoke with a real regret. “He came now and again to my estate in Sheresy, where we hunted and fished and played games of chance.”
“At Amonked’s invitation?”
“I usually invited him myself. I found him to be a most congenial man.”
“You must often have seen him in Waset then.”
The nobleman’s soft laugh contained more than a hint of cynicism. “The older I get, Lieutenant, the less often I visit the capital. I find the life of a courtier to be demeaning.”
He glanced quickly at Bak, offered a wry smile. “Kowtow ing to first one man and then another. Hoping not to offend anyone who has the ear of our sovereign. Always on my best behavior, with very little time to myself. I much prefer
Sheresy.”
Considering Sennefer’s close relationship to Maatkare
Hatshepsut’s cousin, Bak thought it best to make no com ment. “Did you see the prince while you were in Buhen?”
“If I’d known he was there, I’d have sought him out. But
I had no idea until I heard of his death.” Regret once again crept into Sennefer’s voice. “To think he was but a few steps from my bedchamber when he was slain. I shall al ways wonder if he came to see me, if I was inadvertently responsible.”
And so shall I always wonder, Bak thought. “If I knew more about him I might more quickly lay hands on the man who slew him. Will you help me?”
“What can I tell you?” Sennefer stared at the caravan, his thoughts far away. “He was a man with a smile on his face at all times and he had the most generous of hearts.
He was so greedy for life he was exhausting to be around.
I went twice with him to houses of pleasure in the capital, places he often frequented. He was a memorable carouser, believe me, and his appetite for women was insatiable.”
Bak remembered the prince in Nofery’s place of busi ness, the young women at his feet and those awaiting him at the door. Were they mourning his loss or had they al ready begun to forget? “I’ve been told he was a skilled hunter, but the most accurate of bowmen sometimes strike in error. Did he ever fell a man by mistake, do you know?”
“Certainly not while at Sheresy,” Sennefer said with a touch of indignation, “nor anywhere else to my knowl edge.”
The thickening dust roused Bak to the fact that they were nearing the column of donkeys. “He spoke to me briefly before his death, saying his past had come back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he was talking about? Or what could have prompted someone to slay him?”
“I wish I did, but no.” Sennefer’s expression was puz zled. “He was such a congenial man, so skilled in every endeavor. I can’t imagine anyone disliking him so.”
They parted at the caravan, Sennefer hurrying forward and Bak remaining behind to think. He had learned nothing new, but the information he had gained from the nobleman had reinforced his earlier thoughts. Baket-Amon’s major claims to fame were sexual prowess and hunting skills, both volatile pastimes that might lead to murder.
As for Sennefer, he had appeared at first to be aloof, distant, but time and the discomfort of the long, dusty trek had made him more approachable, more human. Bak rather liked him but he did not delude himself. The man could as easily have slain Baket-Amon as anyone else in the in spection party. Still, he had no apparent reason for murder.
Unless the friendship he claimed to have had with Baket Amon was a complete fabrication.
Bak found Nebwa with Lieutenant Merymose farther back along the caravan. They were walking far enough away from the column to avoid the worst of the dust, keep ing pace with a string of donkeys carrying sacks of grain.
“I admit I’m worried.” Merymose looked off toward the river, his face gloomy. “If I had any say in the matter, I’d recommend to Amonked that we remain at Iken. I’ve been told the outer wall surrounds a huge area, with plenty of open space to accommodate a caravan of this size.”
“We can’t stay there forever.” Nebwa pointed toward a small group of men standing outside a serpentine wall that held the sand back from a cluster of small houses near the river. “Those people won’t give up their vigil until Amon ked leaves Wawat.”
Merymose turned to Bak. “We need remain only until you snare the man who took Baket-Amon’s life.”
“I appreciate your faith in my ability, Lieutenant, but what would we do if I never identify the slayer?” Bak shook his head. “No. We must either go on to Semna or return to Buhen. Which Amonked will never do.”
“I suspect the guards under my command would be use less if they had to fight a battle.”
“The people here want justice, and I can’t say I blame them,” Bak said, “but they’d be decimated if they aroused the wrath of our sovereign. That knowledge alone should prevent an attack.”
He exchanged a glance with Nebwa. Both men knew that if the local people ever banded together with no true leader, forming a mob, they would be impossible to control.
Twenty men with bows would fall before them in an in stant.
“If I could just stand up to Lieutenant Horhotep!” Mery mose’s shoulders slumped. “I dare not. He’d destroy me, telling a tale of insubordination to the senior guard officer in the royal house.”
Nebwa eyed the young officer, his face thoughtful.
“Dedu and his archers are alert and ready for action, but should trouble arise, they’d need help. He taught your men to set up camp, now let him train them in the arts of war.”
“Would he do that?” Merymose asked, his gloom lifting.
“I can think of nothing I’d like better.” His voice turned rueful. “He’d have to train me, too.”
“Easily done.”
“Troop Captain Nebwa!” Horhotep, who had come up behind them as silent as a stalking cat, raked his eyes across
Bak and Merymose. Dismissing the lesser officers with a curled lip, he said, “Lieutenant Merymose is a promising officer, but he’s young and green. You must look to me for decisions, not him.”
Nebwa’s expression turned stormy-as the adviser had intended, Bak felt sure. Horhotep had early on taken the troop captain’s measure, he guessed, and decided he could prod and poke until the senior officer grew so angry he would perform some imprudent act. An act the adviser could use later to discredit Nebwa and use to his own ad vantage.
“Lieutenant Horhotep!” Bak said in the same brusque voice the adviser had used. “I’ve been told you knew Prince
Baket-Amon.” A falsehood, but a likely guess.
Horhotep gave him a caustic look. “You mean to ques tion me about the man’s death?”
“You were in the dwelling where and when he was slain.” Bak surreptitiously signaled Nebwa and Merymose to slip away. “Why would I think you any less a suspect than Amonked and the others who were there?”
“Amonked?” Horhotep looked incredulous. “He’s our sovereign’s cousin!”
“Did you ever go hunting with Baket-Amon?” Bak asked, careful not to look at the two officers hurrying away.
“I did.” Horhotep sniffed. “Why our sovereign thought he should be invited, I’ll never know. A minor prince of
Wawat, a tributary land of no worth.”
If the land is so worthless, Bak thought, why are you here? “They say he was skilled with weapons above all others.”
“Bah! A tale once told to make him seem special, and told again and again by men who never saw him with a spear in his hand or an arrow on the fly.”
“I see,” Bak said, and he did. The adviser reeked of envy.
Horhotep suddenly noticed that Nebwa and Merymose had gone. He glared at their backs, far up the line of don keys.
“Were you ever with the prince when he sought sexual comfort?” Bak asked.
The adviser tore his eyes from the fleeing pair and gave
Bak a scathing look. “Come now, Lieutenant. I’m far more selective than he was. I prefer refinement to the coarseness of a harbor-side house of pleasure.”
Bak had had about all he could take, but stubbornness and necessity kept him going. He walked slowly toward the caravan. “I’m not talking about the young women who toil in places of business in the capital. I’m speaking of the women made available on hunting trips organized on behalf of our sovereign.”
“I took no part in that,” Horhotep said stiffly.
“Then you must’ve been invited along as some lofty of ficial’s aide.”
Color flooded Horhotep’s face and he sputtered, “You…
You…” Taking hold of himself, he snarled, “You’re wast ing your time questioning me or anyone else in Amonked’s party. When you return to Buhen, you’ll find the slayer already caught, someone who came into our quarters to steal.”
Giving Bak no time to answer, he stepped through the line of donkeys, placing the animals between them, and hastened toward the front of the column.
“Neatly done, Lieutenant,” said Captain Minkheper, who had been walking behind them unseen. “He may never for give you for seeing through his facade of self-importance.”
“So be it.” Bak shrugged off his irritation and smiled.
“With luck, I’ll discover he’s the man who slew Baket Amon.”
Minkheper knelt beside a foal to scratch its muzzle. “I don’t see how anyone could slay a man with so many peo ple living in such close confines, whether he spent the night there or sneaked in from outside.”
“No one sneaked in,” Bak said with certainty. “The slayer was already in the house.”
“For a man to take such a risk, he’d have to’ve had a most compelling reason.”
“Agreed, but what it was I’ve no idea. Not yet, at any rate. Other than the lovely Nefret, none has shown itself, and looking at her is like looking at one grain of sand in a desert. From what I’ve heard, Baket-Amon took his plea sure at any time or any place, especially in the capital where a man of wealth can satisfy the most demanding of tastes.”
Nonetheless, he must look closer at Amonked. As reluc tant as he was to think of the inspector as a murderer-to face the consequences if Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin should prove to be guilty-he could not turn his back on the possibility. As slight as it seemed at present, no other likely suspects had presented themselves.
Distant barking drew Bak’s attention. An archer walking apart from the caravan stopped to look up a long, broad sandy valley that came out of the western desert between rugged clumps of craggy hills. A half-dozen feral dogs were racing down the valley, veering to left and right, nipping at the heels of a yellow cur. No, they were nipping at some thing dragging behind the cur.
He hurried to the archer’s side and they stood together, watching the pack draw close. The nearest drovers, plod ding with their donkeys past the wadi mouth, stopped to look. The yellow dog ran as if for its very life, either afraid of its burden or the dogs who chased it. Its frightened yelps were almost lost among the excited barking of the others.
The pack veered around Bak and the archer, passing so close he recognized the large, muscular yellow-gold mutt in the lead. The thing dragging along behind, bumping and bouncing over the sandy surface, was a bound package the length of his arm from elbow to closed fist. It was tied to the dog by a rope wrapped around the creature’s neck.
“Stop that dog!” he yelled as the pack swerved to run alongside the caravan.
A drover, standing close to his lead donkey, grabbed a rope from a basket on its back, made a hasty loop, and swung. The luck of the gods was with him. The loop settled around the yellow cur’s neck, he jerked it tight, and dropped the creature in its tracks. Snapping his short whip to scare the other dogs off, he hurried to the downed ani mal, which was baring its teeth and snarling.
Bak and the archer ran to his aid, as did several drovers.
Nebwa sped up the line of donkeys to see what the problem was. While the newcomers chased away the rest of the pack, the drover who had caught the yellow dog quickly wrapped his rope around the animal’s legs and muzzle so it could not run away or bite.
Bak knelt to study the bundle. At first glance, it looked like the wrapped body of a tiny child, but he saw right away that it was not. The linen wrapping, discolored and dirty, was all wrong. The narrow bands of fabric, ragged and torn from the hard journey across the sand, were wound around the bundle in a random fashion that in no way re sembled the careful binding done in the house of death.
“In the name of the lord Amon,” Nebwa said, kneeling beside him, “I feared for a moment the dog had burrowed into a tomb.”
Bak looked at the cord that bound the bundle to the cur.
It was dark and worn, unlike the lighter, newer rope the drover had used. Examining the end around the struggling animal’s neck, he found a knot securely tied by a man, not the casual knot formed by accident. If the rope had caught on a protruding rock, the dog would surely have been stran gled.
With his dagger, he cut the rope from around the dog’s neck so the drover could release the mongrel. As it raced away, Bak cut the strips of linen that held the package together and unrolled the broader piece in which the con tents were wrapped. Out fell seven pairs of sandals.
Both men burst into laughter. Until they saw among the sandals a long gray feather plucked from the tail of a falcon.
And grasped the fact that the footwear had been taken in the dark of night. Taken by a man who had crept into the encampment and walked undetected among the twenty sleeping archers.
Nebwa glared off in the direction of the desert, no longer able to deny that Hor-pen-Deshret had returned. “We’d best keep our suspicions to ourselves, telling no one but our own men. Let the rest enjoy our one night in Iken.”