Bak watched Paser, a dozen paces ahead, walk into the passageway through the towered gate that would take him inside the walls of Buhen. For the first time in two days, much of the tension drained from him.
Although the discovery of the unmarked cones had not been made public, Paser must have ascertained that the statues were missing. He was astute enough to realize he might soon be accused of murder and theft. Bak had thought him too bold and self-confident to abandon the gold he had slain for, the gold he had undoubtedly hidden somewhere inside the city. He had worried anyway. Especially when the caravan neared the river, the only practical escape route through the barren, wasted land.
With Paser safe inside Buhen and a half-dozen Medjay policemen dispersing around the fortress to close off the exits, he could set in motion a chain of events that would demonstrate once and for all that Paser rather than Mery was guilty of theft and murder. He hoped also to satisfy Senenmut that his cousin had been stealing gold and had slain five men to protect his secret.
Nodding to the sentry on duty, he paused at the base of the tower and waited for the heavily guarded string of donkeys carrying the marked cones of gold to follow Paser through the gate. He looked back at the harbor and the three quays jutting into the river like long white fingers pointing toward the opposite shore and the desert through which he hoped never again to march. The naked masts of two broad-beamed cargo ships rose above more than a dozen small vessels bobbing against the quay, disgorging soldiers, captives, drovers, and donkeys. Nebwa’s commands, the men’s good-natured curses, and the braying of nervous animals were lost in the excited clamor of garrison troops and civilians flocking out of the city to watch the spectacle. Word had spread quickly that a large number of prisoners had been taken.
Bak knew he should be well-satisfied. He had planned and won a battle. His Medjays had been accepted by almost every man who had journeyed with the caravan. He had put an end to the thefts at the mine and identified the man responsible. And, with the help of the gods and a handful of mortals, he should be able to prove Paser’s guilt. Yet his sense of accomplishment was blunted by concern for Azzia.
Cursing Hori for failing to meet his boat at the quay, Bak plunged into the passage behind the last donkey. After so many days on the burning desert, the dim corridor felt cool and soothing to his roughened, weathered skin. He strode on to the bright, hot, dusty street beyond. The clean white buildings; the odors of fish, cooking fuel, smoke, and sweat; the sharp yips of scrapping dogs were a welcome relief after so many endless days and nights of heat and dust and thirst. It was good to be home. Home? he thought. Buhen? He dismissed the idea as a flight of fancy and turned his thoughts to the tasks ahead. He must learn Azzia’s fate, lure Paser into his net, and when that was done, hold a council of war with his allies.
As he followed the gold laden donkeys up the street to the treasury, a stream of people hurried in the opposite direction, eager to see the soldiers and their human trophies. He was about to stop a man to ask about Azzia when he saw Paser enter the treasury, the domain of the chief scribe Kames. Gold and all other objects of value were stored there until a ship arrived to carry them downriver to Kemet.
Kames would know where Azzia was. Bak hastened along the line of donkeys, reaching the treasury door as Paser returned to the street.
“What are you doing here?” Paser asked, slapping the lead animal’s gray flank, making it sidle around so he could get to the load it carried. “Should you not be preparing to march through the gate at the head of our victorious troops?”
Bak eyed the drover and guards, all close enough to hear. “Like you, I had another, more pressing task.”
“So Nebwa alone will lead the procession.” Paser expelled a contemptuous snort. “Does that not bother you?”
“Our archers and spearmen won the battle. I did nothing but point the way.”
Paser gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I’ve known few men so modest.” He burrowed deep inside a bundle tied to the donkey’s back. Withdrawing two gold-filled cones, he held them out to Bak. A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Do you not trust me, Bak? Do you fear I’ll keep a portion of this precious cargo for myself?”
He’s taunting me! Bak thought, and produced a smile of his own. “To take gold impressed with the royal seal would be foolhardy. You’re not a foolish man.”
“Why come to the treasury? Did you recover something of value during our journey that you mean to send on to the capital?”
Bak was amazed at the man’s nerve. “I’ve nothing for Kames.”
The two men stared at each other, Paser’s expression speculative, Bak’s as bland as bread without honey or oil or fruit to give it flavor.
“Paser!” Kames called. “Must I wait until day turns to night?”
The caravan officer jerked his eyes from Bak’s, spun around, and carried the cones inside. Bak drew in a long breath, let it out slow and easy. He was sure Paser understood that he did not intend to turn the unmarked cones into the treasury. Did he believe the lie? Did he think all men as dishonest as he?
Bak followed him as far as the threshold. The treasury antechamber was small, cluttered with writing paraphernalia, a scale and weights, and baskets heaped with scrolls. Kames, lean and gray, presided from a low stool. He accepted one cone at a time and weighed it, his face grave, his demeanor so formal he turned the simple task into a ritual. A solemn young man seated on the floor, legs folded in front of him, scribbled the information Kames dictated. A beefy guard stood straddle-legged before a rear door which led to the valuable objects stored beyond.
Bak held his tongue until Paser edged past to collect another pair of cones. “Can you tell me, Kames, if Commandant Nakht’s widow, mistress Azzia, is still within the walls of this city?”
Kames scowled. “You’re the policeman, aren’t you?”
Bak remembered the same tone of mild distaste the last time they had talked. “Will you tell me…”
“I’ll be happy to answer your questions later. Tomorrow.” Kames flicked his hand through the air as if brushing away a fly. “Leave us, sir. You’re blocking the doorway.”
Any other day, Bak would have laughed. Instead he muttered an oath beneath his breath, spun away, tapped Paser on the shoulder, and beckoned. “We must speak further. I’ve something in my possession that will be of interest to you.”
Paser’s eyes flitted to the treasury door. Bak thought he was going to refuse, but indecision turned to calculation and he said, “I must take these cones inside. Then we can talk.”
With a curt nod, Bak slipped past the drover and lead donkey, and strode up the street, stopping well out of earshot of the men tending the animals and their cargo. His eyes were drawn to the commandant’s residence, and his heart as well, but he had teased Paser and had to follow through without delay.
Leaning a shoulder against a wall, which was hot to the touch, he glanced at the western sky. The lord Re peered over the battlements, his long arms angling into the street as if to touch for one last time the golden bits of his divine flesh that the donkeys carried. The animals swished their tails and flung their heads around to nip at swarming flies.
The trickle of people hurrying to the quay had ceased. A few soldiers and scribes had begun to gather on the rooftops to watch the caravan’s triumphant passage along this, the main thoroughfare. Three soldiers were chatting before the doorway of the commandant’s residence. He saw no one on the roof, no sign of Azzia or her servants.
Paser emerged from the treasury and hurried to Bak’s side. “Kames agreed to wait, but not for long. If you’ve something to say, say it.”
“I’ll come straight to the point.” Glancing at the men on the nearby roofs, Bak lowered his voice and spoke with care so no eavesdropper would understand his meaning. “Before Nakht was slain, he left Mistress Azzia a legacy. In her confusion and grief, she gave it to me. It included three objects which, through much diligent effort, led me to a man of courage and guile.”
Other than a slight flicker of the eyelids, Paser’s face remained impassive.
“One object is of value for itself alone,” Bak said. “The others, two scrolls, are not in themselves precious, but could be of worth to a man who wishes to lead a long life free of worry and fear.”
“You were fortunate indeed to receive so generous a gift.” Paser’s tone was smooth, his dark eyes wary.
“In the beginning, I was content with my prize. Not for long, however. A diligent study of those scrolls suggested a path that, when once I set foot on it, proved to be long and arduous.” Bak’s voice turned flinty. “Five men died, one of my Medjays among them, and three attempts were made on my life.” He nodded as if to himself. “At last I came upon a legacy of my own, two images containing, not merely spells to protect men from illness and physical harm, but a modest wealth that I must share with those who helped me find it.”
“You sound like a man sorely used.”
Bak bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “Given the proper incentive, I could forgive and forget.”
Paser gave him a shrewd look. “What of the many men whose help you enlisted? Are their memories as faulty as yours?”
He’s nibbling at the bait! Bak thought. “They believe the scribe Roy-and no other man or woman-knew of the objects they now share,” he lied. “I alone know the full significance of Nakht’s legacy, and I mean to keep it that way.”
“I see.”
Something about the way he spoke sent a chill up Bak’s spine. “I’ll be atop the outer wall tonight, on the tower overlooking the center quay. I’ll have the scrolls with me. If you’d like to meet me there, I’m certain we can agree on a mutually advantageous exchange.”
“So public and well-guarded a place?” Paser laughed. “I think not. If we’re to meet at all…” He appeared to puzzle over his answer. “Somewhere along the river where no man will see us together. Upstream would be best, where the rocks reach into the water.”
Where the goldsmith Heby was slain, Bak guessed. “So private and empty a place? Do you think I care so little for life?” He shook his head. “No! We’ll meet…” He knew full well where he wanted to face Paser, but he frowned as if searching for an idea. “There,” he pointed, “on the roof of the commandant’s residence. When the moon reaches its highest point and the sentries can look down upon us.”
Paser studied the building, suspicious. “How can I be sure you’ll not have men hidden close by?”
“Darkness will have fallen long before we meet and most of the garrison will be fast asleep. You’ll have plenty of time to inspect the surrounding streets and buildings should you feel the need.” Paser eyed him thoughtfully, letting the silence grow.
“One thing you should know,” Bak said. “I’ve posted my Medjays at all the gates leading out of Buhen. I’ve instructed them to intercept everyone-officer, soldier, or civilian; man or woman-and examine each bundle and basket they carry, no matter how small or large. They’re looking for weapons or any of the other garrison supplies so often taken outside these walls and traded to nearby villagers. If there’s anything of value to be found, they’ll find it.”
“You’ve left me no option, it seems.” Paser pivoted on his heel and walked toward the line of donkeys.
Bak had caught no more than a glimpse of the officer’s face and the fierce defiance of a creature at bay, willing to fight to the death rather than let its captor snare it. I’ve hooked a crocodile, he thought, not a great fish that’s helpless out of the water. He had expected no less, but the thought of confronting Paser in the dead of night sent another chill up his spine, this one radiating across his bandaged shoulders and around his rib cage.
Bak hurried along the street to the commandant’s residence. Keeping himself alive was just one of his problems. He also had to convince Paser to go to his cache of gold and bring a portion back, and he had to wring a confession from his lips.
“Officer Bak!” Hori shouted from the rooftop.
He looked upward, as did the soldiers standing before the door. The scribe knelt at the edge of the roof, his youthful face aglow with excitement. Standing beside him were the three servants of the household: Lupaki, the old woman, the girl. And Azzia.
Bak’s worries and fears melted away in the warmth of her smile. “You’re here!”
“I owe much to mistress Iry.” Azzia’s voice was as soft and gentle as he remembered it. “She persuaded her husband to let me stay.”
Bak glanced at the soldiers, who had begun to edge out into the street so they could see the roof and its occupants. He waved them back to the doorway, but was too happy at finding Azzia alive and well to notice their failure to obey.
“She convinced Tetynefer of your innocence?” he asked.
Hori’s smile stretched all the way across his face. “She threatened him with divorce!”
A smile fluttered across Azzia’s face, vanished. “If the breeze is fair, the viceroy will sail into Buhen before nightfall tomorrow. I’m to stand before him the moment he sees fit, probably the following day.”
“He’s bringing the new commandant,” Hori explained.
Bak thanked the lord Amon for his good fortune. If the steward’s wife had not intervened, if a storm had blown the caravan apart on the desert, if another group of tribesmen had attacked, he would not have arrived in time to save her.
Azzia knelt beside Hori. Her long reddish braid snaked over her shoulder and fell between her breasts. “We’ve heard many rumors since word came that you were waiting to be ferried across the river. We heard of the accident at the mine and the fierce battle you fought. So I know you’ve had much to think about since you left Buhen, but did you now and again give thought to the man who took my husband’s life?”
“I believe I know his name.”
Before she could question him further, Bak shot a warning glance at the listening men. Her nod told him she understood he could not speak freely.
Lupaki grabbed Hori and hugged him. The female servants fell on their knees and wept with joy.
“I thank your gods and mine,” Azzia said. “And I thank you more than all of them.” Her final words were muffled by tears, making a lie of the smile she tried to show him.
He did not know what to do or say. He longed to hold her close, to console her with his love, as he had done with many other women through the years. She would not welcome his embrace. She was too recent a widow, too fine a woman. He could not take advantage of the gift of life he hoped soon to give her.
The buzz of voices drew his eyes to the rooftops paralleling the street. Soldiers and civilians, men, women, and children were jostling for the best positions from which to watch the triumphant army and their prisoners enter the city. Paser, he saw, was removing the gold from the next to last donkey.
“You’d better go, sir.” Hori was practically dancing with excitement. “After all the vile things that have been said about our Medjays, I can’t wait to see you and Imsiba and all the others march at the head of the prisoners you took.”
“I thought to let Nebwa…”
“You can’t!” Hori exclaimed. “You won the battle. They say he wasn’t even there!”
“You must enter this city with your men, Officer Bak.” Azzia cleared the tears from her throat, brushed a hand across a wet cheek. “They’ve earned the right to walk tall and proud, all together, behind the man who led them to victory.”
One of the soldiers who had been listening piped up, “I’ve followed Lieutenant Nebwa into the desert a dozen times. We’ve brought back prisoners-though not so many,” he added ruefully. “Half the fun was marching behind him through that gate when we had something to show for our trouble.”
Bak remembered the grueling practice sessions with the regiment of Amon and the joy he had shared with his men whether they won or lost. How could he have forgotten? To march past the residence, knowing Azzia was standing on the roof, watching, smiling at him, would increase that pleasure tenfold.
He grinned. “I’ll return the instant the donkeys are inside their paddocks. We must talk.”
He headed back toward the quay and his men. As he approached the donkeys in front of the treasury, he thought of Paser and the fearless way he had walked into the tribesmen’s trap. He, too, had earned the right to march at the head of the procession, to have his brief moment of glory before being brought to his knees.
Bak checked, not for the first time, the dagger at his waist. The weapon slid easily into its sheath. His belt and kilt were too snug for it to catch on a stray bit of fabric should he need it quickly. Realizing he was fidgeting, he forced himself to sit still. He wanted to appear wary, not eager to do battle or fearful.
He sat midway on the open flight of stairs which rose from the commandant’s residence to the walkway atop the battlements. He was clearly visible in the moonlight to the patrolling sentries-and would soon be to Paser, lurking somewhere in the building below.
For almost an hour, he had heard the infrequent signals his Medjays had given while they stalked the car-avan officer: the call of a nightbird, the whine of a lost puppy, the harsh yowl of a tomcat prowling for a mate. The sounds had begun not long after their quarry had slipped out of his quarters. They had signaled his ascent to the battlements, where he had stood for a long time, studying the rooftops and lanes within the citadel. They had marked his descent and followed his slow progress as he made a careful and painstaking examination of the dark, deserted buildings in the vicinity of the commandant’s residence. The shriek of a female cat mounted by a tom had warned Bak that the man he awaited had entered the antechamber below. Since then, time had dragged.
Bak scanned the roof-flat, ghostly white, empty. His eyes probed the dark rectangular opening where the stairway descended past Nakht’s reception room to the ground floor. He studied the larger, dimly lit square of the courtyard. Paser could be watching him from the stairwell or hiding among the potted trees and shrubs, one shadow among many. Bak pictured Azzia and her servants, lying awake and fearful, listening to the stealthy footsteps of the man who had taken the life most dear to them. He had wanted to move them elsewhere, but their absence would have aroused Paser’s suspicions. In fact, Azzia, brave beyond all other women, had insisted he let her stay.
He surveyed the rooftops of the nearby blocks of buildings. He saw no movement, heard only the usual chorus of barking dogs. The bird, the puppy, the tomcat were silent. His hand inched toward his dagger. He jerked it away and wiped the sweat from his face, cool sweat in a chilly night. Will Paser never convince himself I’m here alone? he wondered.
A soft thud, the sound of baked clay bumping mudbrick. He started, almost laughed aloud. Paser was coming, climbing the stairs. He had caught his toe on the string Bak had stretched along a step, setting in motion a stemmed bowl.
Paser’s head and shoulders burst out of the black stairwell. With barely a glance at Bak, he pivoted, making a fast but thorough inspection of the rooftop. Satisfied they were alone, he ascended to the open trapdoor and stepped onto the roof. He carried a spear. A sheathed dagger hung from his waist. Bak rose to his feet to give himself greater mobility.
Paser looked up at his adversary, safely out of reach of a quick thrust. “You’re a careful man, Bak.”
“I’ve underestimated you before. I know better now.”
Paser eyed him with open curiosity. “Why did you have me march with you and Nebwa when the victorious troops entered these walls?” He tilted the spearpoint toward Bak, drawing attention to the sharp, deadly weapon. “Did you believe so generous an act would lower my defenses?”
“I doubt much of anything could weaken your instincts to survive, Paser.” Bak kept a cautious eye on the spear. “You didn’t hesitate to slay your accomplices Heby and Roy even though, without them, you no longer had any way of laying your hands on the precious ore from the mine. It’s clear you value your life above all things.”
Paser’s laugh was as brittle as poorly made glass. “You understand me better than I thought.”
“A man who hunts a dangerous beast must learn its habits.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
It depends on the beast, Bak thought, but the glittering spear point warned him not to press his luck. “If I thought you like the lowly jackal, a creature that slinks among the tombs, waiting to tear the flesh from the un-resisting dead, would I have taken such care to protect myself?”
Paser opened his mouth to respond, but Bak hurried on, “The night is growing short. I think it time we discuss the scrolls mistress Azzia gave me.”
“I can make no bargains until I see them.” Paser held out his free hand. “Since you refuse to trust me, I suggest you throw them to me.”
“I didn’t bring them.”
Paser tensed; he hefted his spear as if making ready to throw it.
Bak’s hand flew to his dagger. “Think, Paser! Would I offer up the very objects that serve me as a shield?”
“You’re despicable!”
“Fine words from one who’s slain five men.”
Bak slid his weapon from its sheath and raised it slowly, letting his opponent know he would use it if he must. Both men knew who held the advantage. A man could throw a lightweight dagger faster and truer from a hilltop than hurl a heavy spear from the valley below with the force and accuracy necessary to take a life.
“Set your spear at ease, Paser.”
The caravan officer muttered an oath beneath his breath, swung the spear point high, and rammed the butt of the shaft on the rooftop with a solid thud. “What do you want from me?”
Bak let himself relax, but not too much. “Did Nakht let you read the scrolls when he called you into his office the day of his death?”
“Do you jest? He told me of their existence, but left no doubt as to their contents.”
“Good! We’ve no need to haggle over their worth.”
“What do you want?” Paser repeated through gritted teeth.
“I’m not a greedy man.” Bak’s voice was smooth, generous. “For each scroll, I wish to receive a single bar of gold. I’ll need a third bar for the document I prepared that relates in detail the path I took that led me to you.”
“You swine!”
Bak made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “I suggest we meet again within the hour. Here on this roof. I’ll have the scrolls with me, that I promise, and I expect you to bring the gold. After the exchange is made, I’ll withdraw my Medjays from the gates. If you choose to remain in Buhen, your life and mine will go on as before and I’ll make no further demands. If you flee with the remainder of your prize, I’ll do no more than go through the motions of tracking you down.”
“If I fail to meet you here?”
“You’ll not survive the night.”
Paser glared, stretching the silence and the tension gripping Bak’s heart. “All right.” He swung away to plunge down the stairs.
“Leave your weapons behind,” Bak called to the back of his head. “I’ll make no trade with a man I can’t safely approach.”
Paser lost himself in the darkness. The baked clay bowl made no noise. He must have torn it from the step.
Bak stood quite still, alert to every sound no matter how ordinary: the hoot of an owl, barking dogs, the faint squeak of a rat. At last the tomcat yowled. Paser had left the building. Bak rammed his dagger into its sheath and slumped onto the step. He thanked the lord Amon for his help so far and prayed for additional favors. Only the god could allow the Medjays to blend into the dark and follow Paser unseen to the place where he had hidden the stolen gold. Only the god could lead Paser back to the rooftop and give him enough self-confidence to loosen his tongue.
Not until later did it occur to him that Paser had never once mentioned his powerful cousin, the high and mighty chief steward Senenmut.