by Lauren Haney
Only once in the past six weeks had he ventured away from Abu. A month ago, he had traveled into the desert to inspect patrols, the journey lasting four days. Sergeant Senmut had been slain on the last day of the trip, when Antef and a sergeant, accompanied by ten spearmen, had been far out on the desert, inspecting a six-man patrol. Whether they had returned before Senmut was slain or later in the day was a question the sergeant could answer.
Chapter Fourteen
"Where's Kasaya now?" Psuro asked.
"At the river, trying to wash the monkey." Bak grinned. "The creature hates water. It's all arms and legs, screaming as if caught in the jaws of a lion."
Psuro gave him a sour look. "You don't intend to let him keep it, do you?"
"He may as well. The damage has already been done." "Pahared's wife won't be happy if it gets into her stores." Psuro looked pointedly toward the door, where the woman in question stood in a shaft of sunlight, haggling with a traveling metalsmith over the price of bronze rings, pendants, and bangles, finery for the young women who toiled in her house of pleasure.
Bak followed his glance. She was as sharp-tongued as she was sharp-eyed and she allowed no transgressions. It took a strong-willed man to live with such an exacting woman-or one who spent his days on his ship, as Pahared did.
"I told him he has to keep it leashed-and tied with a knot it can't undo. The first time it gets loose, it goes back to the sycamore tree." Taking care not to stir up the sediment, he raised his beer jar to his lips. "Now tell" — me what you learned of Min."
"I went to the garrison offices, stores, armory, anyplace I could find someone who'd talk to me. Not a man in Min's unit survived the storm, and not many support personnel remain in the garrison." Psuro eyed with appreciation a tall, slim young woman from the land of Kush, standing in a rear doorway in a suggestive pose. The girl's dusky cheeks, forehead, and shoulders had been scarified, her hair dyed a coppery orange. "Worse yet, details have blurred after five long years. The truth isn't easy to come by."
"Do those who remain remember him with a smile or a frown?"
"They say he was a hard man to please on the practice field. Experienced in the arts of war, skilled with weapons, proud of his battle scars." Psuro winked at the young woman. "All agreed he was a man to avoid in games of chance, dishonest to the core. But once befriended, a friend for life."
Taking the wink as an invitation, the girl ambled across the room, swaying as if touched by a gentle breeze. The Medjay, enthralled, lost the power of speech.
Scowling his impatience, Bak waved her away. "After we finish here, Psuro, I've another task for you. One you must do right away. Our time is running out."
"Yes, sir." Psuro watched her retreating backside with obvious regret. "One man, an armorer some years past the prime of life, said he thought never to see Min care for a woman. The sergeant was too fond of himself to give freely and too much the man of action to be gentled. When first he expounded the virtues of mistress Hatnofer, all who toiled in the armory thought he was jesting. Until one day the chief armorer took her name too lightly. Min threw him against the wall, furious. He truly loved her, they realized, and never again did they cast aspersions."
Bak nodded, satisfied. Min and Hatnofer had indeed been close. "Why, then, did he leave her behind? Did anyone say?"
"No one could understand." Psuro tore his eyes from the girl, standing again in the doorway. "Rumors abounded that he never set sail, that he was thrown down the water gauge. He never sent word back to friends, saying how happy or discontented he was at his new post, nor was his body ever reported found in the river. Mistress Hatnofer gave nothing way, no angry words or any sign of sorrow. Just a growing bitterness through the years."
"He's dead. I'm sure he is." Bak set his beer jar on the floor and stood up. "He knew Djehuty's secret, some shamefill and abhorrent act, and he had to be silenced."
Rising to his feet, Psuro gave the young woman a final, lingering look. "You think Djehuty slew him?"
"I'd bet a year's ration of grain that he did. Or he gave the task to someone else."
They strode out the door and turned down the narrow lane, vrhich was heated by the midday sun, tempered by a soft breeze. A train of donkeys, their backs loaded high with fresh green fodder, clip-clopped across the intersection ahead. The heavy smell of new-cut clover made Bak sneeze.
While they waited for the animals to pass, he plucked a stalk bright with yellow flowers and nibbled the sweet blossoms. "You must go to the garrison and seek out a sergeant." He went on to explain what he had learned of Antef's whereabouts during the earlier murders and how the sergeant should be able to prove or disprove the officer's innocence at the time Senmut was slain.
"In the meantime," he said with a grimace, "I'll go again to the governor's villa."
"I won't see him!" Djehuty's voice, surprisingly strong for a man so sick he had taken to his bed, carried down the narrow hallway. "Why is he here in Abu? Didn't I order him to leave?"
"He came because the vizier wished it, sir." Amonhotep's voice carried an edge of irritation. Obeying the slightest and most whimsical command of a man behaving like a spoiled, fearful child had begun to try even his patience.
"I don't care. Send him away!" "I can't do that."
"You can and you will!" Djehuty spat out the words like one tomcat spitting at another.
"Sir, if anything happens to you…"
"Nothing will happen!" Djehuty snapped. "As long as you remain close, no one will dare approach me." His voice took on a querulous note. "You're the son I never had, the one individual I trust. With you by my side, I don't need that wretched Lieutenant Bak or his Medjays. Or Ineni. Or Antef. Or… or anyone!"
"You have mistress Khawet, sir."
Djehuty dismissed his daughter with a snort.
Bak muttered a quick prayer to the lord Amon, seeking patience, and marched down the corridor to the bedchamber. The governor lay amid the usual tangle of sheets, his head and shoulders raised on folded sleeping pallets and pillows. The high windows allowed fresh air to circulate, but the cloying scent of an overly sweet perfume vied with the odor of the unwashed body it was meant to conceal. The brindle dog was gone, but its smell lingered. Poor Amonhotep, Bak thought.
"Governor Djehuty," he said. "I thank you for seeing me. I know you're unwell, so I feel greatly favored to be admitted to your presence." The words came out unplanned, an inspiration of the lord Amon, no doubt.
The aide gave him a startled look.
Djehuty stared at the bandages around Bak's upper body and arm. He seemed about to comment, but changed his mind and glared. "You… You
… What're you doing in my bedchamber?"
Bak regretted making life more difficult for Amonhotep, but his sole hope of breaking the governor's silence was to shock him. "I've come to speak of the sandstorm in which so many men were lost…"
"That again. Must you continue to probe an incident all who live in Abu wish to forget?"
"… and to-speak of Sergeant Min, the man who saved your life."
Djehuty drew his head back as if struck. "Min? He… He's gone. He sailed away to Mennufer." As he went on, his words came out with growing confidence, a tale wellpracticed, dredged up from memory. "He asked for a transfer to the garrison there, thinking to better himself at a larger post closer to the heart of the army. Close to our northern capital, where he might catch the eye of Menkheperre Thutmose. I recommended him for the gold of honor, thinking to aide his cause."
Menkheperre Thutmose, rightful heir to the throne and coruler in name only, was rebuilding the army to its former glory while, according to rumor, he bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to grasp the reins of power. With Maatkare Hatshepsut preferring to reside in the royal house in Waset close to her priestly power base, the young king had chosen the administrative capital of Mennufer as his home and as the seat of command for the army.
Bak did not believe Djehuty for a moment. Much of the tale made sense, but h
e had been too quick to explain. As for a golden fly, the official report of the storm proved that untrue.
"Sergeant Min was the tie that bound Hatnofer to the storm," he said, his voice cool, crisp. "They were lovers. So close he fought for her honor in the garrison. Did you know that?"
"No, I… " Djehuty's eyes darted around the room, seeking a way out. "Yes, she told me."
"Min survived the storm, but a short time later he vanished. She was slain because she was close to him and because she was next in fine below you, managing your household."
"Amonhotep fits into your so-called pattern as well if not better than Hatnofer." Djehuty's voice challenged. "He actually survived the storm; she never set foot in the desert."
And he is, in every sense, your right hand, Bak thought, but you would never acknowledge how much you lean on him, how much you need him. "He was on a ship returning to Abu from Buhen the morning she was slain."
"The slayer could have awaited his arrival. Barring an unforeseen delay, the vessel was expected that day."
In a way, Djehuty had a point. Had Hatnofer been slain merely because circumstances threw her in harm's way? Or had she guessed the slayer's identity and faced him with her knowledge?
Aware that the pause had stolen the momentum from his questions, Bak said, "They say in the barracks that Min never sailed to Mennufer. He was slain before ever setting foot on a ship. Would such a rumor survive if it had no substance?"
The brief silence had bolstered Djehuty's defenses; his chin jutted and he glared. "Go away, Lieutenant. I'm ill, too ill by far to respond to your vile insinuations." He pulled the sheet up beneath his chin and rolled onto his side, his back to the two officers standing by the bed.
"Sir!" Amonhotep, his face set, reached out as if to shake his master. Within a finger's breadth of the governor's shoulder, he pulled his hand back. "If you're to help yourself, you must help Lieutenant Bak."
Djehuty tugged the sheet higher, covering his ears.
Bak walked to the door, thoroughly disgusted. "If you wish to die, sir, you have my blessing." He stopped on the threshold, waiting for a reaction. He got none.
Bak stood at the top of the stairway rising up the slope from the landingplace. Below, Ineni stood on the deck of a small cargo ship from which baskets piled high with fresh produce were being off-loaded. Fruits and vegetables raised on the estate at Nubt had been shipped upstream to fill the governor's belly and that of his household. Sailors and household servants carrying laden baskets on their shoulders trudged up the stairs and through the gate past the sentry.
He was far from alone, yet he felt uneasy. Was the archer yet alive, hidden somewhere behind him, even now seating an arrow in Ws bow? Swinging around, he studied the walls and rooftops of the governor's villa and that of Nebmose. He saw no one but the guard at the front gate.
Shrugging off his momentary anxiety, he turned away to walk along the terrace. The interview with Djehuty had disheartened him. How could he hope to protect a man who would do nothing to help himself? He strode past four small boys playing tag, their laughter and shouts filling the air with joy. He fervently wished he had as few cares as they. He circled around the water gauge, raised a hand in greeting to the women collected at the public well, and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by willow trees in front of the mansion of the lord Khnum. Barely aware of the chatter of women drawing water, he tried to make sense of all he had learned thus far.
He had been so quick to see the patterns in the deaths that had occurred. Why could he not identify the slayer? He wanted above all things to succeed in his task, as he always had before. Here he was, however, unable to see the smallest glimmer of light. He had been utterly convinced the sandstorm was the key, and he continued to believe so, but each time he learned a new fact, it led nowhere. If only Djehuty would reveal his secret! But he would not. And if he-did, would it help point the way?
The governor was exactly as Nofery had painted him as a young man: spoiled, stubborn, heeding no one's advice, taking on authority too great for his abilities. The first three traits Bak had seen for himself. The disaster of the storm, the loss of so many innocent lives, had undoubtedly been the result of the last.
Three days until week's end, he thought. Three more days until the slayer strikes again. Khawet might be his next target but, assuming he meant to continue with the patterns he had established, he then would have to wait yet another week before striking Djehuty. Would he do so? Probably not. The risk of discovery was too great. Still, Bak had to take precautions for her safety as well as that of — her father.
Her father. He could think of no more worthy a target than Djehuty, yet he could not let him die.
"I want no more Medjays in my house." Khawet's mouth was set, determined. "Kasaya did nothing but make a nuisance of himself."
"Psuro is older and more responsible," Bak said. "Unless he's needed to protect you or yours, you'll be unaware of his presence for much of the time."
The last thing he wanted was to assign Psuro to the governor's villa day after day. The Medjay was far more valuable gleaning information from the residents of Abu and Swenet or the soldiers assigned to the garrison. But what _choice did he have?
"Can you not respect my wishes, Lieutenant, simple as they are?"
Giving him no time to answer, she stepped beneath the lean-to and focused her attention on two men seated on the ground in the shade. Both were making round reddish clay pots on horizontal wheels, deftly building up the walls of the swiftly turning vessels. Twenty or more similar pots stood drying in a corner, waiting to be fired.
"Your father's life is in jeopardy, mistress Khawet. I want someone near when the slayer makes his appearance." "Three days from now," she pointed out.
"He could strike at any time. Wouldn't you alter your plans if all the world knew you'd established a pattern?" She gave him a tight smile. "My father refuses to leave his rooms, and he insists that Lieutenant Amonhotep remain by his side at all times. Only Amonhotep. No other man. Under the circumstances, your Medjay would be close to useless."
"I'm as concerned for you as I am for your father." He raised a hand, cutting off her objection. "The slayer enjoys this game he's playing. I'd not be surprised if he decided to draw out Djehuty's agony by slaying the one closest to him."
A boy of twelve or so years entered the open courtyard, carrying a basket of dried dung and an armload of dead twigs and branches. Ide knelt before an open hole at the base of a round baked clay furnace half again as tall as a man and began to build a fire.
Her mouth tightened. "I'll have no Medjays here, and that's final!"
Bak wanted to shake her. She was as stubborn as her father, and almost as irrational. "Mistress Khawet…"
"No," she said, her eyes on the boy. "I'm in no danger." Bak watched a potter dip a hand into a bowl of water and smooth the surface of the vessel he had just finished. He could override her decision and force her to accept Psuro, but he had no wish to place, the Medjay in such a difficult situation. Treated as a pariah, his worth would be halvedor worse. He needed an alternate, but who? He thought of the men he had met since arriving in Abu, the few he felt he could trust. The best he could come up with was by no means equal in competence to Psuro or Kasaya.
"If I were to find someone else, a man of Abu and not a Medjay, would you allow him to stay close by your side?" She gave him a sardonic smile. "Not so close he shares my bedchamber, I hope." Noting how serious he was, she sobered. "Who're you thinking of?"
"A guard who's been here for several years and knows both house and grounds. Kames, he's called."
"I don't know him."
Bak was not surprised. Kames was not one to attract notice. "I don't know what other tasks he's had, but now he keeps watch over Nebmose's villa."
"Oh, yes, the husky young man with a rather surly look on his face. The one recently thrown into the river and battered by the rapids."
He pictured Nenu as he had last seen him, recalled the guard's tale
of a fight, and opened his mouth to reject her version of the story. Then the truth struck him. A half-formed smile vanished from his lips and he let the statement pass. First things first. "Not him. A smaller, older man. They patrolled the villa together until a few days ago."
Her expression was singularly lacking in enthusiasm. "If I must be watched, he sounds no worse than anyone else. At least he'll respect the rules of this household. Unlike your Medjays."
Bak resented the barb, but let it pass. She was like a fruit tree so heavily burdened its limbs were bowed beneath the weight. He must have a serious talk with Kames. The guard must stick to her like plaster to a wall, and he must not close his eyes for an instant.
"They didn't find the patrol until midafternoon." Psuro shouldered the basket of clean laundry and lifted the jar of fish stew by the rope handle attached to its neck. "Troop Captain Antef insisted they go on with their task, keeping to their schedule, and he and his men stayed with them for close on two hours."
"They were far out on the burning sands?" Bak asked. "Almost three hours' march west of the river, searching for intruding tribesmen."
The old woman handed Bak a basket covered with leaves, and he gave in exchange the token due her. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread wafted from the container, along with the sharp odor of cheese and the tangier, more subtle smell of boiled eggs.
"According to the sergeant," Psuro said, "he and Antef and their men didn't return to Abu until an hour or more after sunset. He had good reason to remember. They couldn't find their skiff in the dark-someone had taken it-and while they searched, a man fell into the river. They finally gave — up and spent the night on the west bank."