“You can’t keep this to yourself!” Imsiba glared at his friend. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life working in the mines? Or lose your nose and ears?”
Bak forced a semblance of a smile. “I could flee to a faraway land, as Nakht fled to Hatti when he was falsely accused of treason.”
The sergeant laughed derisively. “He lived in Mennufer then, near the routes to the north, where the land is fertile and the villagers and herdsmen live and act as civilized men. You’re in Buhen, with desert on all sides, a land peopled by men who live in hovels. Would you cross the barren sands by yourself? Would you choose a hovel for your home?”
Following his shadow away from the torch mounted beside the door, Bak paced the length of the small, plain whitewashed room. Imsiba dropped onto one of two low stools setting between a small table and an oblong rush basket brimming with scrolls. Shields, spears, and other weapons of war were stacked against the wall by an open stairway leading to the roof. The tools of their scribe Hori’s trade-writing implements, paint and water pots, a neat stack of papyri-lay on the floor at the far end of the room. One door, closed for privacy, led outside to a narrow lane. Two others opened to Bak’s bedchamber and Hori’s. In addition to a sleeping pallet, Bak’s room contained two plain woven reed chests, one for clothing, the other for bed linen, and a small box for toiletries. Hori’s chamber was equally spare. Although modest, the house was clean and comfortable.
“No,” he admitted, “a hovel would not please me at all.”
“Then take the gold with you when you report to the steward Tetynefer. He holds the power in Buhen now; let him decide what to do.”
“I can’t throw her to the crocodiles, Imsiba!”
“You’ve been exiled to Buhen by no less an individual than our sovereign. Do you wish to add to your offenses in her eyes?”
A stubborn look settled on Bak’s face. “She exiled me, yes, but she surely knew I did what any responsible officer would do: I stood at the head of my men when they needed me. The lieutenant who took me before the vizier, the one whose Medjay police broke up the fight, swore we were in the right and the other men had been cheating.”
“The man you struck was the son of a provincial governor, his firstborn and favorite. You broke his nose and knocked out some teeth. He’ll never again be thought handsome.”
“Nonetheless…”
“You and the others in your chariotry company swept through that house of pleasure like wild bulls chased by jackals through an outdoor market. The end result was the same: total devastation. That establishment was frequented by some of the highest men in the land. The man who owns the building is a ranking priest, responsible for all food offerings in the mansion of the lord Amon. The man who pulls the strings of the old scoundrel who ran the place is one of the wealthiest merchants in Kemet.”
“I know, but…”
“Who carries more weight with our sovereign, Bak? Men of influence who support her hold on the throne? Or you?”
“She’s the earthly daughter of the lord Amon, the greatest of the gods. You’d think she’d have no need to bribe men like them for favors.”
Imsiba gave him a disgusted look. “You know better than that, my friend.”
Grudgingly, Bak admitted, “She wrested the power from Menkheperre Thutmose while still he was a babe. She’ll not give it back until she must.”
Menkheperre Thutmose was Maatkare Hatshepsut’s nephew and stepson. As a small child, he had inherited the throne from his father. His aunt, acting as regent, had wrested the power from him and named herself king. Many men believed the youth, now fourteen years of age, the rightful heir to the throne. Barely a man, he was rebuilding the army into a loyal and capable fighting force. If, or more likely when, he chose to take the throne for himself alone, Maatkare Hatshepsut would fall and so would the men around her.
Bak stopped before the second stool and frowned at the thin slab of gold lying on the seat with the rolled papyrus. “If I give this ingot to Tetynefer, he’ll send Azzia to Ma’am, where the viceroy will be certain to judge her guilty of murder.”
“And theft.”
“How would a woman who spends her days caring for a house lay her hands on unworked gold?” Bak shook his head impatiently. “No, she didn’t steal it. Someone else did, someone close to her. Commandant Nakht, the viceroy will say. He’ll be assumed guilty and labeled a thief in spite of the fact that this, I’m convinced, was the wrong he fully intended to right when he spoke to me.”
“You’d sacrifice the rest of your life to protect Nakht’s good name? You didn’t even know the man.” Imsiba studied Bak long and hard, as if searching deep in his soul. “Is it the woman, my friend? Has she addled your wits?”
“No, Imsiba.” Bak smiled ruefully. “The fire in my groin is but a dull ember. So it will remain. I have no intention of allowing the flames of desire, and the smoke that goes with them, to cloud my judgment.”
Imsiba’s laugh eased the tension between them.
“Come,” Bak said.
He scooped up the gold and the scroll and carried them into his bedchamber. The sergeant, looking puzzled, hauled himself off the stool and followed. Bak shoved his sleeping pallet aside. “Look at the floor near the base of the wall. What do you see?”
Imsiba studied the hard-packed earth in the swath of light falling through the doorway. “Nothing.”
With a satisfied nod, Bak pulled his dagger, a plain bronze weapon of army issue, from the sheath attached to his belt. He dropped to his knees, brushed away the dust until a crack appeared, inserted the blade, and pried a carefully molded section out of the floor. Below was a hole more than half a cubit square.
“I found this by chance when we moved into this house,” he said. “It smells of date wine. A previous occupant must’ve kept a secret supply here, I suspect to drink through the day while he performed his duties.”
“It looks safe enough,” Imsiba admitted, “but to keep the gold…it’s beyond my understanding.”
“Maiherperi said before we left Waset, ‘If, through poor judgment, an innocent man is made to look guilty, it’s as great an affront to the lady Maat as was the criminal act itself.’ Since I’m not certain Azzia took her husband’s life or knew before his death of this gold, I must search deeper for the truth.”
Imsiba expelled a long frustrated sigh. “By all accounts, the commandant was an honorable man. If someone else-a lover, perhaps-gave the gold to her for safekeeping and Nakht found it in her possession, he would’ve had no choice but to take her before the viceroy. Men have been slain for lesser reasons.”
“And she passed it on to me to make herself look innocent,” Bak said irritably. “I know. We’ve been through all that before.” He rammed the dagger into the sheath. “You admitted you were no more able to guess her thoughts than I was. Why do you believe she’s guilty?”
“I’m not sure she is,” Imsiba said with obvious reluctance.
“Hear me out.” Bak paused, gathered his thoughts. “Azzia could’ve slain Nakht during a simple lover’s quarrel, but I think it more likely his life was taken to keep him from airing his knowledge of this gold.” He stared at the glittering slab, and a grim smile touched his lips. “If I give this to Tetynefer, word will spread through Buhen like dust on the wind. The man who stole it will brush away his footprints and we’ll never find him. If I keep it and Azzia tells him I have it, he’ll sooner or later conclude I’m as dishonest as he and will come for it.”
“If no one comes?”
“I’ll report it to Tetynefer.”
Imsiba pursed his lips, his brow furrowed. “What if the woman is innocent? Won’t she tell the steward you have it if she thinks you’ve kept it for yourself?”
“Yes, but by that time…” Bak shrugged off the doubt which threatened to swallow his confidence. “With luck, and if the lord Amon chooses to smile on us, this scroll will point to the guilty man, might even name him.”
Worry clouded Imsiba’s face. “You’re gambling with the gods, my friend.”
Bak twisted the rolled papyrus in his fingers, studying the blank surface, longing to look inside. No, he had dallied too long already. Tetynefer was expecting him. He dropped it in the hole, laid the ingot beside it, and replaced the block. Within moments, the hiding place was as invisible as it had been before, and his pallet covered it.
He stood up, smiled to reassure the sergeant. “They say the path gold takes from the mines to the royal treasury is so carefully controlled no man can lay his hands on as much as a single grain. Yet someone took that slab. When I learn how it was done, I pray my own offense will be forgiven and forgotten and Maatkare Hatshepsut herself will free me from bondage in this wretched fortress.”
Hurt and disappointment settled on Imsiba’s face.
A pang of conscience touched Bak’s heart and he clasped the Medjay’s shoulders. “You mustn’t worry, Imsiba. Maiherperi will send another officer to take my place, one who’ll know better than I how to convince the people of this city that you’re as loyal to Kemet as they are.”
The words sounded hollow in his ears. Oh, yes, he thought, Maiherperi will send the best man available, but will he be an officer who distances himself from his men? Will he make Imsiba and the other Medjays feel utterly alone in this remote outpost where they’re not wanted?
Bak hurried along a street so broad six men could walk abreast. The lord Khepre, the rising sun, had yet to climb above the eastern horizon, but traffic abounded in spite of the early hour. Yawning sentries streamed off the battlements after the changing of the guard. A column of spearmen, half-awake, grumbling, marched toward the desert gate on their way to the practice field outside the walls. Local farmers led braying donkeys laden with produce bound for the market.
Ahead, two massive towers rose into the pale dawn sky, the gate between them open and manned. Bak could not see the river beyond, but a fresh breeze smelling faintly of fish wafted through the portal and blew puffs of dust along the thoroughfare. Tired after a long night with no sleep, sticky with the previous day’s sweat, he longed for a swim and his sleeping pallet. Soon, he promised himself, and headed with little enthusiasm into a narrow, less-traveled lane to his right.
Another turn, a quiet, empty lane took him to one of the larger homes in Buhen. A servant escorted him into a modest reception hall. The ceiling, supported by a central pillar, was higher than those of the adjacent rooms, allowing the faint early morning light and breeze to filter through high windows. The space was cluttered with a loom, a grindstone, pottery water jars, and a few toys. A doorway covered with a rush mat led to what Bak assumed were family rooms. Through an open portal to the right, he saw in the fluttery light of several oil lamps a heavy middle-aged man sorting through a basket filled with rolls of papyrus. He was as bald as a melon and his belly protruded like rising bread dough over the belt of his ankle-length kilt.
This was Tetynefer, the chief steward responsible for receiving and disbursing garrison supplies, collecting tolls on trade goods passing through, and recording copper and gold from the mines and tribute collected from local chieftains for the royal coffers. Thus he was the highest-ranking bureaucrat in Buhen and the man in charge until a new commandant could be appointed.
He looked up as Bak entered. “Ah, there you are, Officer Bak. Come in. Come in.”
Waving his visitor onto a stool, he scooped up a scroll lying on the floor, seated himself cross-legged on a thick linen pad, and spread the papyrus across the fabric stretched tight over his thighs. Beside him lay a narrow wooden pallet in which had been cut a slot to contain reed pens and round wells that held moistened red and black ink.
“This is a serious matter, young man, very serious.” With an officious scowl, Tetynefer pulled a pen from the pallet and dipped it into the black ink. “The viceroy will expect a detailed report. We must tell him exactly what happened.” He glanced at Bak. “I know you’re an educated man, but in a delicate situation like this, I prefer to send a document written in my own hand and impressed with my personal seal.”
Tetynefer, Bak realized, could hardly wait to assume his temporary authority and gain the viceroy’s personal attention. If he chose to start by taking upon himself the laborious task of writing out the official report, so much the better.
Bak told all he had seen and done, condensing the tale to a manageable length as the steward’s stubby fingers sped across the columns. When he reached the point where Azzia had given him the gold, he hesitated, reluctant to make the final irrevocable commitment. His conscience nagged him to mention the precious slab, as did his sense of self-preservation.
“Is that all?” Tetynefer prompted.
“Yes.” It came out like the croak of a frog. “Yes,” he repeated, his voice stronger, more firm.
Tetynefer stared at the scroll on his lap, then looked up, his chubby face as grave as any judge’s. “It’s clear mistress Azzia took her husband’s life.”
“She could be telling the truth. The room was accessible to many men.”
“Come now, Officer Bak! Nakht was a tested warrior, a man who saw action many times on the field of battle. While with the army of the king of Hatti, he stood out as one among many, an officer of great valor. Would a man like that allow another to thrust a dagger into his breast without defending himself? Certainly not! On the other hand, a wife could come close and distract him with words of seduction.” Tetynefer nodded, grunted his satisfaction. “Yes. That’s what happened. I’m absolutely sure.”
I wonder, Bak thought, if you’d be equally certain if you talked to her. “She seemed sincerely distressed by the commandant’s death.”
Tetynefer affected the woebegone look of the disappointed schoolmaster. “You’re young, Bak, and naive. You know nothing about women.”
Bak managed to keep his face blank, hiding his resentment at being treated like a child and his amazement that this fat old loaf of a man should consider himself so worldly.
“Mistress Azzia is a stranger in Kemet,” Tetynefer went on. “She has no family, no one to turn to now that she has no husband. If you were she, if you’d just slain the man who provided for you-and provided quite well, as you most certainly noticed-wouldn’t you be sincerely distressed?”
Bak conceded the point, but not aloud. He refused to give the steward the satisfaction.
Tetynefer dabbed the pen in the ink and poised it above the scroll. “I’ll tell the viceroy you’ll take her to Ma’am on the next northbound military transport. It should arrive in Buhen today and will sail away in…what? Three days. Yes, that should satisfy him that we’re conducting ourselves efficiently.”
Three days! Bak’s stomach knotted. To protect himself, he had to tell Tetynefer about the gold before he set foot on that ship. Would the one who stole it screw up the courage to approach him in so short a time?
Taking care to hide his dismay, he said, “Before I left Waset, Commander Maiherperi advised me to search for the truth until I find it. In this case, I’m not sure I have. Therefore, I need more time to prove the woman’s guilt or innocence.”
The steward raised a disdainful eyebrow. “How do you expect to do that?”
“I’ll ask questions until I’m satisfied one way or the other.”
Tetynefer snorted. “You clearly have no experience in delving into the mysteries of the human heart. If you had, you’d have seen Azzia’s distress for what it is: the will to live in the best and most comfortable manner possible.”
Bak gritted his teeth so no words would escape. He dared not offend this man. When the time came to speak aloud of the gold, he wanted the steward to accept his reasons for keeping it, not close his ears to the truth out of spite.
Tetynefer placed pen to papyrus and scratched out a dozen more lines. When he finished, he gave Bak a complacent smile. “I pointed no finger at Azzia; however, I’m sure the viceroy will guess from the contents of this message that it was she who slew her husband.”
He blotted the ink, rolled the papyrus tight, and secured it with a cord. After placing a small chunk of moist clay on the knot and pressing his seal into it, he handed it to Bak. “A courier is waiting at the quay. Tell him to take this to Ma’am immediately and to wait for the viceroy’s response.”
Three days, Bak thought, only three days. What could he accomplish in so short a time? He hesitated, sorely tempted to report the gold. No, he decided, not yet. He had to look at other possibilities, at other potential suspects. Where should he start? With Mery, he decided, and Nebwa and Paser, the three officers who were on the battlements near the time of Nakht’s death. At the very least, one of them might have seen something suspicious.
Bak leaned against the open portal between the lane and the small walled courtyard fronting the unmarried officer’s quarters, a dwelling of at least a half-dozen rooms. A mudbrick bench ran along the facade of the house and several wispy tamarisks grew along the wall to his left. The night’s chill remained in the shaded court. Besides the caravan officer Paser, who was seated on the bench, the sole other occupant up and about was a reed-thin servant, a boy no more than ten years old. He squatted beside a low-rimmed pottery bowl resting on a bed of coals in a square brick hearth. The scent of onions and fish rising from the bowl made Bak’s stomach ache for breakfast.
“How can you doubt Azzia took her husband’s life?” Paser asked. “Have you reason to believe someone else was there?”
“No,” Bak admitted, “but I hesitate to accuse her until I’m certain.”
“Nakht was a true warrior, a man I admired above all others,” Paser’s voice hardened, “but he should never have wed a foreign woman.”
Bak eyed the square-bodied lieutenant, a man in his late twenties with skin burned as dark as leather from many hours in the sun. His build, his sharp features, and a cool self-confidence bordering on arrogance testified to the fact that he was first cousin to Senenmut, chief steward of the lord Amon and Maatkare Hatshepsut’s favorite. Her advisor and, if the rumors were true, her lover. Nakht had called Paser the boldest of the several officers who led the caravans back and forth between Buhen and the mines.
“I understand he lived in Hatti when they met,” Bak said, “where he was the foreigner.”
Paser’s laugh was hard, cynical. “He was younger then.”
“Are you saying he regretted the match?”
“All the world knows he couldn’t bear to be away from her,” Paser said scornfully. “Maybe he feared he’d lose her, maybe he could no longer please her in the privacy of his bedchamber.”
Bak thought of his own father, a few years older than Nakht, who every night shared his sleeping pallet with either his matronly housekeeper or a pretty young servant girl. He knew, though, that some men lost their virility earlier than others.
“Do you believe she had a lover?” he asked.
Paser stood up and walked to the fire. “I came upon them by chance a day or two ago. They were quarreling.” He knelt beside the boy, speared a fish with a pointed stick, and laid it on a small, flat loaf of bread. “Nakht made no outright accusations, but from the veiled words he used I had no doubt of his mistrust. And now…” He chuckled, insinuating the worst. “Well, she’s free, isn’t she?”
“Who’s free?” Nebwa emerged from the dwelling, yawning broadly as he tried with awkward fingers to fasten his kilt. He was tall and muscular, about thirty years of age, more tanned than Paser. His hair was untidy, his coarse features puffy, as if he had just left his sleeping pallet. He was the senior lieutenant in Buhen, in charge of the garrison infantry. His men patrolled the desert and skirmished with tribesmen bent on raiding villages and farms along the sector of river for which Buhen was responsible.
“Azzia,” Paser said shortly. “Nakht’s widow.”
Nebwa muttered a curse, glanced through the door behind him, and issued a sharp command in a tongue Bak could not understand. A slender dark-skinned woman in her late teens hurried outside to straighten his twisted belt. She wore a multicolored skirt dyed in a chevron pattern; other than a dozen or so bronze chains bearing a multitude of colorful stone amulets, her upper body was bare. She had come, Bak guessed, from one of the nearby villages.
“She’s free, all right, but she’s not for the likes of you and me.” Nebwa wrapped a proprietary arm around the girl’s waist and pulled her close. “She’s a lady, unlike this one, who would lie with a monkey if it fed her.”
Cupping a shapely breast in his hand, he bent to take it in his mouth. She glanced at Bak and looked away quickly as if embarrassed to be used in such a way. The boy stared at the bubbling food, his nostrils flaring, his mouth tight. Bak thanked the gods Nakht had seen fit to give him separate quarters. With only Hori sharing his house, he did not have to worry about other men’s habits or tempers.
“Must you always behave like a heated ram?” Paser snarled.
Nebwa raised his head, laughed. “Isn’t that why I keep her?” With another quick command and a slap on the buttocks, he sent her toward the hearth.
Scowling, Paser broke open his cooling fish, tore a piece of flesh from the bones, and ate it. “If I were you, Bak, I’d keep a close eye on Azzia.”
“Why?” Nebwa sneered. “She didn’t slay him. Even if she did, what do you expect her to do? Run off into the desert? Or sneak onto the first merchant ship leaving Buhen?” He flopped down on the dusty hard-packed earth. “That’d be smart, wouldn’t it? It’d be an admission of guilt. All Bak would have to do is send out a courier and she’d be picked off the ship at the next port.”
“For a price, half the captains on the river would hide anything or anyone among their cargo.”
“Bah! A couple of soldiers can go through a ship from prow to stern in less time than it’ll take you to eat that fish.”
Bak would have let them squabble if he felt he was learning anything new, but he was not. “I’ve been told you both were on the wall last night, and I wondered if you saw…”
“Officer Bak!” Mery’s voice, urgent, angry, interrupted, followed by the quick patter of his sandaled feet approaching along the lane.
Bak swiveled around.
Mery drew up before him, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “You left a Medjay in mistress Azzia’s home, watching her like a common criminal. How could you do such a despicable thing?”
Bak was too tired to appease him. “What would you have me do? Call her innocent when I’m not sure she is?”
“Better that than to call her guilty when you have no proof.”
“Proof!” Paser jeered. “What better proof than the blood on her hands?”
Mery swung on him, ready to strike, but a quick, hard command from Nebwa, his senior officer, broke his will to act. He slumped on the ground beside the tamarisks.
Bak’s eyes narrowed on Paser. He did not remember seeing the caravan officer’s name on the list of men who had swarmed upstairs from the audience hall. “You were there? In the commandant’s residence?”
Paser gave him a cool look. “I wasn’t, as you surely know. But I’ve been told how she looked. Everyone in Buhen has heard.”
The woman knelt beside Nebwa with several fish. He grabbed one by the tail and tore it apart. With his mouth full, he said, “I was there. I saw the blood, and I also saw her face. I’d swear before the lord Amon himself that she didn’t slay him.”
Bak asked the question that had puzzled him ever since he had seen Nebwa’s name on the list. “Why didn’t you take charge after Nakht was slain? You’re senior in rank to Mery.”
Nebwa glanced at the watch officer, shrugged. “He had the situation well in hand when I got there. I saw no reason to interfere.”
“You weren’t in the residence when mistress Azzia screamed?”
“I was on my way. Like everybody else, I wanted to see your Medjays bring in their prisoners. I thought they’d bring Nofery in, too, and she…” Nebwa looked up from the fish, grinned. “She can cause quite a stir when she wants to.”
“Sorry we disappointed you,” Bak said in a tone as dry as the desert sands.
“I’d have missed it anyway.” Nebwa scowled at the lost opportunity. “Before I got there, I thought I heard somebody running across the roof of the scribal office building. I went up to take a look.”
Bak’s interest quickened. “Did you see anyone?”
“I knew it!” Mery flung a triumphant smile at Bak. “Mistress Azzia didn’t slay Nakht! Someone else did. Someone who entered from the roof.”
Nebwa spread his hands wide. “I saw nothing but shadows.”
“How thoroughly did you search the area?” Bak asked, smothering his disappointment.
“I was a pace or two from the top of the stairs when Azzia screamed. I was pretty sure nobody was up there, but just in case, I found the guard-he was in one of the storage magazines-and sent him up to take another look. He told me later he walked the roofs from one end of the block to the other and saw nothing.”
Bak muttered a frustrated curse. If anyone had been on the roof, he’d have had plenty of time to run down the stairs and out to the street while Nebwa sought out the guard. On the other hand, it would have been an easy matter for Nebwa himself to cross from one roof to another and slip down the stairs to Nakht’s reception room.
“By the time I finally got to the residence, Nakht had breathed his last.” Nebwa thought a moment then, added grimly, “If I’d found anybody on that roof, he’d be a dead man, that I can tell you for a fact.”
Paser helped himself to another fish and carried it to the bench, where he sat down. “From what I hear, Mery refused to let anyone near the commandant’s body.” He glanced at the slim young man and smirked. “For Azzia’s sake, I assume.”
Mery’s face reddened-but whether from anger or embarrassment, Bak could not tell. “I thought Bak should see the room as I found it, not disturbed by a dozen pairs of feet and hands.”
“Did he?”
“I didn’t alter the scene to make mistress Azzia look innocent, if that’s what you’re implying,” Mery snapped.
“Not at all,” Paser said so smoothly it was obvious that was exactly what he meant.
Mery glared at his accuser, lips so tight the scar at the corner vanished from sight. Paser raised an eyebrow as if surprised at the younger officer’s anger. Mery shot to his feet.
“Easy!” Nebwa boomed.
Mery pivoted and walked to the hearth. Bak eyed his back, wondering if his retreat was an admission of guilt. With the door closed to the men outside, he could have moved the furniture or smeared the blood or removed some object that would point to Azzia. Or he could have ended Nakht’s life himself. His admiration for the woman appeared to have no bounds.
As for Paser, it seemed unwise to bait a fellow officer in a frontier garrison like Buhen, especially since they shared the same quarters. Did he know for a fact that Mery and Azzia were lovers? Or had he meant to draw Bak’s attention away from his own activities?
He asked, “Where were you, Paser, when Nakht lost his life?”
Paser eyed Bak with a hint of amusement. “I believe you’re actually taking this new task of yours to heart.”
Bak smarted at the sarcasm, but gave no sign. “I know you were on the battlements for a time. Where did you go from there, and what did you see?”
Paser leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Are you aware that I have the ear of the chief steward Senenmut, our sovereign’s right hand?”
Bak smiled. Compared to what could happen if anyone discovered he had kept the gold, the implied threat seemed insignificant. “I have the ear of the commander-in-chief of our army, Menkheperre Thutmose.” It was not the truth, but Paser had no way of knowing that.
The caravan officer stared, the glint fading from his eyes. He had to know, as well if not better than most, that if Maatkare Hatshepsut lost the throne to her nephew, Senenmut would be the first among her allies to fall from power.
Nebwa slapped his thigh and laughed with delight. “What’s wrong, lieutenant? Has Bak caught you with your loincloth around your ankles?”
A flush spread across Paser’s cheeks, but he kept his eyes on Bak. “I don’t know where I was. I walked hither and yon, thinking over Nakht’s plans for providing more protection for the caravans.”
“Were you near the residence at any time?”
“Probably.” Paser threw the denuded fish bones into the fire. “In fact…yes, I saw your Medjays escorting their prisoners into the building. I had no wish to ogle a group of besotted men, so I walked on.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“Other than the outrageously large number of prisoners you chose to take, no.”
So all three had been on the battlements during the night and, later, in or near the commandant’s residence. Any of them could have sneaked into Nakht’s room. Bak drew his thoughts up short. What am I doing? he wondered; I’ve no more reason to think these men guilty than anyone else in Buhen.
He glanced at Mery and Nebwa. “Since neither of you believe mistress Azzia took her husband’s life, can you guess who did?”
“I’ve tried and tried,” Mery said, looking up from the fish from which he was carefully stripping the bones. “I can think of no one. He was a good man, highly respected by all. Even the local people living along this stretch of the river held him in high regard.”
“Deep wounds heal slowly,” Bak said thoughtfully. “The army of Akheperenre Thutmose marched through this land twenty-five years ago with a vengeance. His soldiers took many lives among those involved in the uprising, and left many widows and orphan children. Do you think one among them carries sufficient hate in his heart to have slain Nakht?”
“Those savages?” Nebwa snorted, contemptuous. “There’s not a man among them smart enough to slip past the guards and inside the walls.”
Bak glimpsed the face of the girl, huddled within Nebwa’s encircling arm, an instant before she lowered her head. He saw shame there and hurt. The boy’s black eyes glittered with hate.
Mery placed a hand on the child’s bony shoulder. “These people saw the might of our army and they’ve never ceased to fear it. None would risk having his village burned and his family and livestock carried off to the holy mansions of Kemet. The men of the desert, on the other hand, those who raid the caravans, have nothing to lose.”
“The caravans are slow, our soldiers vulnerable,” Nebwa explained. “Easy prey for the murderous jackals who know the best places to attack and the fastest routes to run away. But to enter Buhen to slay one man and take away no booty?” He expelled a hard, scornful laugh. “No, Bak. You must look inside the walls, not outside.”
Bak nodded, certain Nebwa was right. The one who had entered Nakht’s room with murder in his-or her-heart had not been a stranger. “Who do you suspect?”
Nebwa’s eyes met his with no hesitation. “Those cursed Medjays you brought from Waset. Who else? The building was full of them.”
Bak swallowed a curse. “No.”
“They were taken to Kemet as boys. They speak like us and act like us, but their hearts belong to this vile land of Wawat. If you look at each of them in turn, you’ll find one, maybe two or three, maybe all, who believe that to sever the head of the garrison is to weaken its body.”