A soft light penetrated the white linen that covered the wood-framed pavilion in which Bak and Kenamon sat. The fabric rippled in the breeze, making fluttery, whispery sounds, and sent vague shadows darting across the scrolls, utensils, and bags and bundles of medicaments laid out on a reed mat beside the priest. The odors of frankincense and juniper wafted through the open portal of a connecting pavilion. Murmurs outside, men's voices softened by the presence of royal guards, announced the passage of soldiers and nobility. Distant laughter, the smack of spear against spear, an occasional bellow, told of soldiers practicing the arts of war. A low never-ending rumble spoke of the rapids outside the fortress walls.
"The swelling will remain for a few days, as will the discoloration." Kenamon rewound the linen bandage holding Bak's lower arm and hand firm against the wooden splint. An oily green salve oozed out along the edges of the fabric. "It's as I told you yesterday: The break should heal without problems, but you must treat the arm as you would a newborn babe: gently, kindly, making no demands on it."
"Rest assured, my uncle, I'll not try to use it again. It hurts too much."
The elderly priest, seated on a low stool in front of his patient, gave Bak the same severe look he had used when he was a child. "The pain is there to remind you that you must take care. You ignore it at your peril."
Bak, scooting back on the thick pillow he sat on, gave the old man a lopsided smile. "How can I stand in a guard of honor with my arm tied to my waist?"
Kenamon shook his head in mock disgust. "Guard of honor! Hah! You should see yourself."
Bak knew what he looked like: bruised, battered, and bandaged. A wounded sparrow. A man praised by all within the garrison and city of Iken, soldiers and civilians alike, for laying hands on Puemre's murderer and for surviving the rapids. A man who had knocked a king to his knees, a divine being who had not yet deigned to summon him.
"Perhaps it's just as well," Kasaya had said. "He was very angry when last I saw him on the ship. Better to bear nothing than to have your hands lopped off because you trod on his royal pride."
Kenamon, on the other hand, had counseled patience, saying the king had been busy, praying long and often for the health of his son, receiving people who had traveled great distances in the hope of an audience, and renewing past friendships with men such as Huy and Senu. Bak preferred to believe the priest rather than Kasaya. After all, Amon-Psaro had lived many years in Waset, learning the civilized ways of Kemet.
"Now let me look at your shoulder," Kenamon said, drawing close a bowl containing a brownish paste that smelled bitter like wormwood but carried other, more subtle, odors, too.
Bak turned around obediently and let the priest cut away the bandage he had applied the previous day, revealing an area of scabby, bruised flesh as large as the palm of a hand, one of several places scraped raw in the rapids. Kenamon cleaned the wound and spread the ointment over it, murmuring prayers while he worked, magical incantations that would drive away the demons of sickness..
Whether eased by the poultice or the prayers, the fire in Bak's broken arm soon waned to a smolder, and he let himself relax under the priest's capable hands. Kenamon rebandaged the shoulder and went on to a deep, ragged cut on the arm, drawn together beneath a thin slice of fresh meat bandaged tightly over the injury. Removing the meat, he probed the wound in search of infection. Bak let his thoughts drift, his eyelids droop. A soft moan, as delicate as the mewing of a tiny kitten, roused him from his torpor and stilled the priest's hands.
"He's awakened?" Bak asked, glancing toward the connecting pavilion, trying not to show concern. He had heard rumors all morning that the prince seemed almost healed, but he feared the tales more wish than reality.
Kenamon quickly scraped the salve from his fingers to the edge of the bowl and wiped the residue on a clean square of linen. Hurrying to the portal, he looked inside. His face relaxed into a smile. "Amon-Karka is dreaming," he whispered. "Something happy. Come see the way he smiles."
Bak scrambled to his feet and hastened to the priest's side. The small bony child lay sprawled across his sleeping pallet, holding close against his cheek a wooden lion with movable tail and lower jaw. The toy was a gift from Aset. The boy's breathing was slow and easy, with no coughing or desperate panting or noisy and fearsome wheezing.
The room reeked. of frankincense, juniper, wormwood, and beer. The pungent odor wafted from a bowl on the floor beside the prince. A reed straw protruded from an identical bowl turned upside down to serve as a lid. Kenamon, Bak knew, had dropped a hot stone inside, heating the liquid remedy, and the prince had breathed in the fumes through the straw.
Amon-Karka nuzzled the toy, smiling, and repeated the sound, more a contented sigh than a moan.
Bak laughed softly, half-ashamed of how worried he had been. "I know you're more capable than most, my uncle, but I didn't expect so quick and miraculous a cure."
"The lord Amon has guided my heart and my hands, young man. I'm his tool, nothing more." The reminder was gentle but firm, an adult telling a child a fact he should take for granted.
"Without sufficient knowledge and skill, you'd not have been able to obey the god's wishes."
"I blame your father for your impertinence." Kenamon's voice was gruff, but his eyes twinkled with merriment. "He should've remarried, taking into his household a woman who'd teach you the respect you lack."
Bak had thanked the lord Amon many times that he had been spared a stepmother. "Your apprentice said you had clues to the malady, yet how could you? Until yesterday, you never laid eyes on the boy."
Kenamon looked in at the prince, his expression a mix of self-satisfaction and compassion. "I asked many questions of the couriers who came from Amon-Psaro, and I talked with men who've lived in his capital. Through the months, I learned much of Amon-Karka's sickness and the way he lives and even the weather. I came to know as much about him as his servants do, and more, I think, than his father knows."
"And from among the details of his life, you plucked out the clues to his illness." Like a policeman searching out a murderer, Bak thought, though so illustrious a physician as Kenamon might not appreciate the comparison.
Kenamon walked back to his stool and sat down. "By the time we sailed into Buhen, I knew he suffers most during the months before the river rises, when the winds blow hard from the western desert. I knew he grows ill when he travels or when he drives a chariot or plays with his dogs." He took a daub of ointment on his fingers and waited for Bak to settle down on the pillow. "I thought I knew the cause-it's common enough in children-but I couldn't be sure."
Kenamon spread the ointment over the cut. "The reports I heard during his journey from Semna seemed to verify my diagnosis. When they brought him to me here and he responded so quickly to medication and prayer, I knew I was right. He has a breathing sickness that befalls many children. Most outgrow it; some never do."
Bak thought of the lord Amon and the long journey he had made from the land of Kemet. He thought of the great tribal king who had traveled from far-off Kush in the firm belief. that the greatest of the gods would answer his prayers. "Have you told Amon-Psaro his son may never recover?"
"He knows I can do nothing but ease the boy's symptoms." Kenamon wrapped a bandage tight around Bak's arm to hold the cut together and tied the ends in a small, neat knot. "I've told him how best to protect the boy from further attacks. Other than that, all we can do is pray and make suitable offerings."
"Then I'll get well, won't IT' The childish voice drew both men's eyes to the doorway and Amon-Karka leaning against an upright, rubbing one leg with the other foot. Before the priest could answer, the prince's large dark eyes darted toward his patient. "You must be Lieutenant Bak, the policeman who saved my father's life. The one who went through the rapids."
Without thinking, Bak spoke as he would to an ordinary child. "How'd you guess?"
The boy laughed, delighted by the quick rejoinder. "Because you're bandaged all over, halfway to being a mummy."
Bak grinned. "Are all princes so impertinent?" Amon-Karlgn wrinkled his nose at the smelly room behind him, sauntered over to the two men, and plopped down beside Kenamon. "Can I watch?" His eyes leaped from the priest to Bak. "Will you tell me about the rapids? And the man you chased? And how you knew he wanted to slay my father?"
Bak hoped, if ever he got to meet Amon-Psaro, that he would be as bright and open-hearted as his son.
"Lieutenant Bak." The herald's voice resonated with authority. "Son of the physician Kames of the southern capital of Waset in the land of Kemet. Lieutenant of chariotry in the regiment of Amon. Lieutenant of the Medjay police at the fortress of Buhen. Right hand to Commandant Thuty of Buhen."
The man stepped back so Bak, on his knees, his forehead on the floor mat, could no longer see his feet. All he could glimpse was the edge of the dais on which Amon-Psaro sat. The rough surface of the mat dug into his scabbed knees; his broken arm throbbed. A heavy perfume smelling of lilies and myrrh tickled his nose. He prayed he would not sneeze.
"You may stand, Lieutenant," Amon-Psaro commanded.
Bak rose as gracefully as his battered muscles allowed and stood at rigid attention. The king studied him in silence, taking in the bandages and bruises, the splint. Bak, clinging to Kenamon's prediction that the interview would go well, examined Amon-Psaro as closely as the king studied him, but not as openly.
As he had the day before, the king wore the garb of a royal son of Kemet: simple white kilt, multicolored broad collar, and bracelets, armlets, anklets, and rings of gold and precious stones. Twin golden cobras mounted on a golden diadem rose above his forehead, and he carried a scepter of gold. Spotless white bandages covered the cuts across his ribs and arm. He sat enthroned on a gilded armchair, his feet on a matching footrest. The royal backside was made comfortable on a thick red pillow embroidered with gold threads, and the royal spine was eased by a magnificent leopardskin draped over the back of the chair. Every inch a king, he was also a man: tall, muscular, leonine. Attractive at close to forty years; no doubt doubly so in his youth-especially to women.
Red-and-white banners fluttered from the frame of the open pavilion in which he sat. Two of Bak's Medjays stood guard with two soldiers from the king's homeland. Other than a few lookers-on, only a half dozen functionaries stood nearby, murmuring together while they waited to obey their ruler's slightest command.
"I owe you my life, it seems," Amon-Psaro said. "Yes, sir."
"Commander Woser tells me he looked upon Inyotef as his friend, and he had no suspicion of wrongdoing. He says only your tenacity unearthed the plot to slay me."
Bak suspected the king would prefer a simple yes or no answer, but if he did not speak up the mute child Ramose would soon be buried and forgotten in a desert grave. "The boy who died at Inyotef's hands, the one who served Lieutenant Puemre, left drawings behind pointing to a plot. Without them, I'd have been as blind as the commander."
"The boy, yes." Amon-Psaro's thoughts turned inward. "Younger even than my own son." He rubbed his eyes as if to rid himself of the vision. "I've asked Commander Woser to see him properly entombed. I pray the gods give him a voice and hearing in the netherworld, and he leads a better life than in the past."
"Thank you, sir."
"No, Lieutenant, it's I who must thank you. Not merely with words, but with all the good things of life." AmonPsaro sat up straighter on the throne and his voice grew more formal. "I wish you to return with me to my capital in the land of Kush and serve as my right hand while I govern my people. I've few men I trust and I believe you'd be a worthy adviser. I'll give you a fine house, much land, and many cattle. And so you may fill your life with children, I'll give you my youngest sister, a woman of merit and beauty."
Bak was struck dumb, The offer was the last thing he expected-or wanted, for that matter. It was too generous by far, the task too demanding for one who had no experience in such lofty company, too precarious according to Senu's wife. But how, he wondered, does one say no to a king?
Late that evening, Bak stood atop the fortress wall, looking out over the roaring waters that had come so close to taking his life. Seen from above, the rapids looked like a demon's brew boiling in a great cauldron, with the water bubbling and foaming and pounding the deadly boulders, teasing the eye with a multitude of rainbows trembling in the mist. The sight filled his heart with awe. How had he survived? He felt sure that walking the corridors of power would be equally dangerous.
"Do you often swim in such waters?" Amon-Psaro asked, his voice raised to be heard over the thundering rapids.
Bak swung around, startled, and fell to his knees. "Stand!" the king commanded. "I'll have no bowing and scraping from you, Lieutenant." _ Bak hastened to rise. "Yes, sir."
Amon-Psaro had abandoned the glitter and gloss of office, he saw, retaining only the royal diadem and the broad collar and bracelets of gold and lapis lazuli that he had worn during the procession through the city the day before.
"It's been many years since I've stood side by side with a man of Kemet and had the opportunity to speak the language of my youth. Don't steal the pleasure from me by placing me in a niche with the gods."
Bak heard loneliness in Amon-Psaro's voice and regret for a lost past. The thought had probably occurred to him at one time or another that a living god might share such basic emotions with ordinary men, but the realization surprised him-and touched him. "Would you like a jar; of beer, sir?" he blurted.
"Beer?" Amon-Psaro hesitated an instant, laughed. "Yes, Lieutenant, a jar of beer would be in order."
Bak leaned over the inner breastwork and called out to a soldier strolling along the base of the wall. The man, seeing the king beside the officer, hastened to the kitchen. In no time at all, a ruddy-cheeked boy delivered a basket filled with beer jars, dried fish the size of a man's finger, and small round loaves of crusty bread.
The king, beer jar in hand, looked out over the wall, his elbows planted on the bricks, his eyes on the rapids below. The lord Re, a golden ball resting on the horizon, threw streaks of red and orange and yellow high into the pale sky, brilliant ribbons thrown out by the god in honor of the Kushite monarch.
Amon-Psaro sipped through the reed straw, scowled at it, dropped it into the basket, and drank from the neck as his less refined companion was doing. "It seems you and I have a mutual friend, Bak."
"We do?" Each time Bak spoke, he had to remind himself not to call the king "sir".
"Mistress Nofery, a woman of business in Buhen. I've a letter from her, brought today by the courier who delivered dispatches from Commandant Thuty to Woser. She calls you a good man, one of the best in the garrison of Buhen, and a good friend."
Bak gaped. "You know Nofery?" Even as he spoke, he recalled the obese old woman, sitting with him in her house of pleasure in Buhen, telling him she once knew AmonPsaro. He had laughed, he remembered, skeptical of her tale.
"I knew her well many years ago. I was a prince then, a hostage in Waset." Amon-Psaro stared straight ahead, looking into his past. "She was shapely and beautiful, the most seductive woman I've ever met, even to this day." He laughed softly to himself, the sound lost in the rumble of the rapids. "She was a woman of pleasure then, and now she runs a business. A successful endeavor, she wrote, selling the bounty of the fields. I'm glad she's found good fortune."
Bak opened his mouth to blurt out the truth, but changed his mind. If Nofery chose to paint herself in bright colors, it was not his. business to dull the sheen.
"I long to see her again," Amon-Psaro said, his voice wistful, "but I'll not take my son to Buhen and risk further illness. Nor can she travel, she tells me, with her business so brisk this time of year and her daughter too heavy with child to carry on alone."
Bak stared at the river below, hiding his face from Amon-Psaro, his racing thoughts. Nofery had no daughter. What was she up to? Why would she lie when, if she told the truth, she could see once again a man she liked and admired, a powerful man who might give her many precious gifts.
"She was a lovely creature." Amon-Psaro emptied his beer jar and, smiling at the memory, dropped it into the basket. "Slim, straight arms and legs. Breasts large and round and erect. Mouth soft and gentle."
The answer came suddenly, stunning Bak with its simplicity, showing him a sensitivity he had never imagined Nofery possessed. She had indeed been beautiful, just as she had told him that day in Buhen, and she wanted AmonPsaro to remember her that way, not as the fat and aging old woman she had become. He admired her for the sacrifice.
"I've sent her a gift to let her know I've not forgotten: a lion cub and a young male slave to care for it and cater to her every wish." The king glanced at Bak, his expression anxious. "Do you think she'll like them?"
Bak pictured Nofery with a large new house of pleasure, a grand place of business with an exotic mascot and servant. "She'll be overwhelmed with joy." An understatemeet, if ever I heard one, he thought. She'll parade them before me, never letting me forget I thought her tale untrue.
Amon-Psaro relaxed, smiled, broke the plug out of a fresh jar, and handed the brew to Bak. He seemed friendly enough, open to questions, but Bak hesitated to ask the one uppermost in his thoughts. Curiosity finally nudged aside his trepidation. "Will you tell me of Sonisonbe, Inyotef's sister?"
The king gave him a quick look, and turned away to stare out across the river. "Sonisonbe. Yes."
"I don't have to know any more than I already do, but I'd like to understand."
Amon-Psaro let the silence grow, reluctant to speak. When at last he did, the words came hard, torn from a past long buried. "I met Inyotef during the voyage north to Kemet when first I was taken hostage. He was a sailor, barely a man but older than 1, more experienced. A man of boundless ambition, and one who played as hard as he worked." He stopped, raised the jar to his lips, drank, set it on the wall. "Huy, who was as close to me as a brother, was sent north with his battalion the day we set foot in Waset. I walked into the palace friendless but for Inyotef."
He toyed with the jar, his thoughts far away. "I soon found a way to scale the wall, and I made my way to the harbor and the warship Inyotef sailed on. He showed me Waset that day, and I thought it the most magical city I'd ever seen. We roamed the streets for hours, and when we grew tired he took me to his home. His parents and sister welcomed me as one of theirs."
"Didn't anyone miss you in the palace?"
Amon-Psaro snorted. "That night my wings were clipped. But I refused to eat, so from that day forward they closed their eyes to my absences." He took another drink, but Bak doubted he tasted the brew. "One day Inyotef's warship sailed north, taking him with it. At first, Sonisonbe and I played as we had before, but our games soon turned to lovemaking."
He picked up the beer jar, set it down again, looked at Bak for the first time grace starting his tale. "Inyotef returned a man of the world, filled with the desire for plea. sure. By then I had many friends among the nobility, all with a like passion, so for months on end I spent my days and nights reveling. I drank too much, played games of chance, and lay in the arms of countless women. Nofery was one of them. She stole my heart."
"What of Sonisonbe?"
"I loved her, too." Amon-Psaro drew in a deep, ragged breath and released it. "Long before my father died and I had to return to the land of my birth, I promised them both I'd send for them as soon as my throne was secure. Nofery laughed, taking my vow as a joke. Sonisonbe promised to follow me to the four corners of the earth if need be. In the end, when at last I took my father's place, my duties as king overwhelmed me: the need to wed my sister to keep the line pure, the squabbling among my cousins, the need to learn about a land and a people I'd long ago forgotten. I didn't send for either woman. I wanted no more burdens." He rolled the jar between his two hands, unaware of his action. "Some months later Inyotef wrote, telling me of Sonisonbe's death, vowing to slay me."
Bak felt an immense pity for Amon-Psaro, for Sonisonbe, for Inyotef. "I heard his ship was once turned back from the land of Kush, so I assumed you knew he wanted you dead." He frowned, bewildered by a new thought. "Why then did you come north to Wawat? Surely you knew he was a pilot on the Belly of Stones."
"I had to save my son's life.",
"A prudent man would've sent a message to Commandant Thuty, asking him to send Inyotef north, well away from Men."
Amon-Psaro shrugged, as if as much at a loss to explain as Bak was to understand. "Perhaps I wished to end his misery and mine, for we both mourned for her in equal measure. Or did I wish to appease my conscience by putting myself in his hands and letting the gods decide my guilt or innocence, my life for hers? I don't know."
Bak left Amon-Psaro at the entrance to Kenamon's pavilion, and Imsiba intercepted him moments later. Eyeing the broad gold and lapis lazuli collar around Bak's neck, the wide bracelets on his arms, the Medjay's expression plainly showed his concern. "What did you tell him, my friend? That you're going with him to faroff Kush?"
Bak took Imsiba's arm and aimed him toward the quiet corner where their men had set up camp. The camp was empty, the men somewhere across the fortress watching Pasbenuro play knucklebones with the champion of the Iken garrison. Distant voices, laughter, and cursing announced the ebb and flow of the game. They hunkered down beside a thick fish stew, kept warm on a bed of coals contained within a tripod of rocks.
"I danced around the truth for a time," Bak said, "but finally told him how I felt: I'm content as I am and I have no desire to live a life of wealth and privilege. So he gave me this instead." He ran his fingers over the cool, smooth beads of the necklace. "He took them off and, with his own hands, fastened them on me."
"I thank the lord Amon!" Imsiba grinned. "When I saw you laughing together, I feared the worst." -
Bak's smile was as broad as that of his friend. He was relieved the decision was over and done with, the temptation to climb to great heights a thing of the past. "He hid his feelings, but I suspect he was relieved. He talked too freely today, more than a king should, telling me the deepest secrets within his heart. I imagine he'll be glad to see the last of me."
"The prince, Kenamon says, is doing well. How much longer, do you think, before we can go home to Buhen?" "Soon," Bak said. "The sooner the better."