Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  “Mistress Nefret.” The scribe, whom Bak guessed at thirty or so years, laid aside the scroll, struggled to his feet, and crossed the room, his gait heavy and off-center. Unlike most men of his profession, he wore a shorter, thigh-length kilt, probably to ease the effort of walking. A monstrous scar ran from his right ankle up his lower leg and deformed knee, to vanish beneath the garment. “You must not speak out in anger. You’ll hurt no one but yourself.”

  “Can’t you ever leave me in peace, Thaneny?” She shot to her feet, glared. “Must you constantly repeat Amonked’s words like the pale shadow you are?” Bursting into sobs, she ran from the room.

  The scribe looked as if he had been slapped. “She’s very upset, sir. Lonely. Afraid. She doesn’t mean half of what she says.” A blind man could see he doted on the young woman.

  To no avail, Bak feared, if the contempt she had dis played were sincere. “Most women come to Wawat with their husbands and children, and they tolerate this life for a year, two years, sometimes three, because they must.

  She’s fortunate she has to remain only a few weeks.” He had no doubt Nefret could hear through the flimsy wall of hangings. His words would offer no comfort, but they might set her to thinking of others besides herself.

  “She shouldn’t get so angry with Amonked. From the day he took her into his household, he’s cherished her, plied her with gifts, surrounded her with beauty and comfort.”

  Thaneny looked away and spoke in a wistful voice. “Would that I could someday give a woman all he’s given her.”

  “Has not the lord Amon given you far more than material objects?” Bak asked, thinking of the misshapen leg.

  “My life, yes. I thank him each and every day for sparing me.” Thaneny spoke as if reciting a litany, deeply felt but too often uttered. “Nefret can’t find it in her heart to un derstand, but I never cease to thank that most benevolent of gods for allowing me to serve a kind and generous man, one who doesn’t look away each time I walk into the room.”

  Bak was aware that Thaneny’s labored gait would arouse a pity few men wished to acknowledge. Especially since the scribe was a handsome man still in his prime, with well formed facial features, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular arms. If Amonked could look at the man and not see the deformity, he had at least one redeeming quality.

  “Thaneny…” A slender youth of about twelve years peeked into the room. “Oh, we’ve a guest. I’ll come back later.”

  “Come in,” Bak commanded the already retreating fig ure.

  From the deep ruddy skin and dark, tight curls, he guessed the boy was a child of the western desert, the her ald Pashenuro had befriended, another individual who must journey across the desert sands for no good reason. A child brought along, like the concubine and her servant, not out of necessity but to satisfy Amonked’s personal needs. And how was Thaneny to travel? A man whose every step was a struggle.

  The boy turned back, his eyes wide with curiosity. He held four ostrich feathers, their long shafts rising far above his bony shoulder.

  “You found something for her.” Thaneny gave the youth a grateful smile. “I thank the lord Thoth.” Thoth was the god of writing and knowledge, the patron of scribes.

  “I found a merchant who’s come from far-off Kush.”

  Guilt vanquished the boy’s sunny smile and he glanced around as if afraid he had been heard. “I know Amonked told us not to stray, but when I asked the drover Pashenuro where I could find something for mistress Nefret… Well,

  I had to go aboard a ship outside the walls of Kor.” His eyes leaped toward Thaneny’s face and an anxious smile touched his lips. “The feathers were worth it, don’t you think? She’ll like them, won’t she?”

  “How can she not?” The scribe took them from the boy, held them at a distance, nodded. “Yes, they’re lovely. No woman could ask for better.” The pleasure left his smile and resignation entered his voice. “Now I fear she’ll wish to visit that ship.”

  “It’s gone. The captain wanted to reach Buhen before full dark.”

  Thaneny gave the boy a relieved smile, then his eyes flitted toward Bak. “Pawah, this is Lieutenant Bak, officer in charge of the Medjay police. Pawah is Amonked’s her ald.”

  The boy gaped. “A police officer? Really?”

  Forming a smile, Bak asked the boy, “Have you always lived in Kemet, or was Wawat the land of your birth?”

  “I was born here, sir, into a tribe that roamed the desert.

  Five years ago, when a drought struck and many waterholes dried up, my father traded me to a merchant so my brothers and sisters wouldn’t starve.”

  Thaneny laid his arm across the boy’s shoulder as if to shelter him. “The merchant took him to Waset and traded him to the owner of a house of pleasure. Later, Sennefer bought him, saving him from unspeakable cruelties, and passed him on to our household. He’s been with us ever since, a part of our family.”

  Bak ruffled the boy’s hair, distracting him from his un pleasant past. “Are you glad to be back in Wawat?”

  “It’s all right.” Pawah shrugged. “As long as I can serve my master, I’m happy anywhere.”

  Bak eyed the pair standing before him. He wondered how they would feel about Amonked a week or two hence, after spending the days marching across the hot, barren des ert and the nights trying to sleep in cold, drafty tents.

  They’d not be so charitable, he suspected.

  “What am I to do, sir?” Pashenuro asked. “Return to

  Buhen? Or travel upriver with you?”

  “You’ll remain with the caravan.” Bak had been unde cided as to where the sergeant would be better placed, but a brief visit to the animal enclosure and a close look at the mounds of supplies that had to be transported had given the answer. “Seshu is greatly overburdened. He needs a strong right hand, and that you must be. Say nothing of your true task to anyone in Amonked’s party. As long as they believe you to be a drover, they’ll speak with a far less guarded tongue when you’re near.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They sat with the archers from Buhen, who were seated around a rough mudbrick hearth to absorb the small amount of warmth the dying fuel offered. The men passed around large cooking bowls containing braised duck and vegeta bles, a feast to send them on their way upriver. The fire in the hearth oft times flared, making the barracks wall behind them glow, but its light was transitory, its heat negligible.

  “Maintain your friendship with the youth Pawah. I doubt he’s had any contact with his family since he was taken from the land of Wawat, but be watchful anyway. I don’t want the child tempting his desert kin with tales of Amon ked’s wealth.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Bak raised his voice, catching the attention of the men around them. “You all know Pashenuro as a policeman, but to Amonked and all who travel with him, he’s a drover.

  The truth must never be aired.”

  “I’ll personally geld the first man to betray him.” Nebwa, closer to the hearth, scanned the circle of archers, his eyes catching the flame, burning with promise. “Do I make my self clear?”

  The men murmured assent.

  “What am I to do, sir?” Sergeant Dedu asked.

  Nebwa reached into a bowl and tore the wing off the remains of a duck. “I’ve not traveled through the Belly of

  Stones for several years, so I’ve lost touch. This journey will give me a chance to perform an inspection of my own, to check on the state of repair of the fortresses, the needs of the officers and men, their morale.” He tore the wing into two parts and gnawed off a bite. “I know Seshu could use you, too, but as I’ll be otherwise occupied much of the time, you’ll be of more use as a military man, standing at the head of these archers. You’ve some experience with the bow and you’ve spent many long weeks on desert patrol, so you know how dangerous this land and its people can be. Especially if Hor-pen-Deshret has come back. Frankly,

  I doubt the rumor is true, but you never know.”

>   Hissing a sudden warning, Pashenuro shoved himself backward to vanish in the dark. Two men strode out of the gloom beyond the hearth, Lieutenants Horhotep and Mery mose. How much they had overheard, Bak could not begin to guess.

  “What do we have here?” Horhotep looked around the circle of men, his lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “Good food. Good company. Entertaining tales designed to bolster courage and self-worth. What good fortune for us. May we join you?”

  Pashenuro’s hearing was as sharp as a jackal’s, Bak knew. With luck, this cursed military adviser had been so preoccupied with planning his own performance that he had heard nothing but the march of his own two feet.

  Horhotep glanced at Bak and surely saw him, but his eyes came to rest on Nebwa. He looked down his nose at the more senior officer, assuming a superiority designed to chafe. “First you try to frighten Amonked with talk of im minent attack by Baket-Amon’s subjects, who in truth are nothing but impoverished farmers. Now you speak of rag tag tribesmen as an army. What do you take us for, Troop

  Captain? Children who’ll believe any tale you throw at us?”

  Lieutenant Merymose stepped back a pace, as if distanc ing himself from the sharp-tongued adviser.

  Nebwa stood up, teeth bared in an unfriendly smile. “If we come upon an enemy during this journey, even if only one man with a pole sharpened to a point for use as a spear,

  I pray to the lord Horus of Buhen that you’ll be the first to face him.” He spat on the ground, reinforcing the contempt in his voice. “You with your proud bearing and unproven courage. How will you fare when tested?”

  “You swine!” Horhotep, forgetting himself, throwing off his haughty indifference, reached for his dagger, drew it.

  An archer slipped back, out of range of the flickering light cast by the fire. He took a bow and quiver from among several leaning against the barracks wall and armed the weapon. Two other men followed his example. Aware the situation could rapidly go out of control, Bak scrambled to his feet.

  Nebwa, tut-tutting at the show of temper, slid his dagger from its sheath and spat again, barely missing his oppo nent’s foot. Horhotep, his stance, his weapon ready to strike, stood as if glued to the spot.

  “What’s wrong, Lieutenant?” Nebwa goaded. “Have you no stomach for combat?”

  “Nebwa, no!” Bak shouted. He lunged toward the ad versaries, placing himself between them.

  Merymose, leaping forward at the same time, caught hold of Horhotep’s weapon and twisted it out of his hand.

  “You cur!” Horhotep screamed at the younger officer. “I could’ve taken him with ease! You’d no right to touch me!”

  Merymose stumbled back as if struck and stared at the dagger in his hand. He seemed surprised to find it there, appalled at what he had done.

  “Lieutenant Horhotep!” Bak’s voice rang out, hard and cold like the crack of a whip. “Go back to your tent and calm yourself.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that!”

  Bak pointed toward the archers standing in the shadows, weapons at the ready. “Do you have any idea, Lieutenant, how close you stand to death?”

  Even in the uncertain light, they could see the color drain from the adviser’s face. He jerked his dagger from Mery mose’s hand and spun around to vanish in the dark. Mery mose flung Bak a look of apology and hurried after his superior officer.

  Nebwa muttered a string of curses, blowing off steam.

  The men growled vain threats. Bak bowed his head and offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that neither he nor

  Nebwa nor their men would live to regret this small victory.

  Chapter Seven

  The double doors of the western, desert-facing gate were spread wide, admitting the soft early morning light into the tunnel-like passage through the twin-towered portal. A long train of heavily burdened donkeys plodded through, drawn by the fresh, clean air outside the walls. Walking in single file, the sturdy beasts set off along the desert trail, following the drover Seshu had assigned to lead the foremost string.

  A pack of feral dogs appeared out of nowhere to range alongside, a dozen or so slick-haired, medium sized animals of varying colors.

  Drovers cracked their short, stout whips to keep the younger, friskier donkeys in line. Foals gamboled around their mothers. Each time a hoof struck the sand, a tiny puff of dust rose in the animal’s wake. Soon a thin cloud formed above the caravan, tinting the sky a dull gold.

  Bak, who had climbed up to the battlements to watch the first animals set out, eyed that golden cloud as he would a pennant held aloft above a unit of his own troops hiding in ambush. It was pleasant to look at but a dead giveaway to an enemy force-and within the hour would be visible from a long way off. A beacon inviting attack.

  A shout rent the air, drawing every eye within and with out the fortress. A sentry raced along the parapet atop the southern wall, heading toward the corner tower. Bak burst into a run and sped along the walkway atop the western, desert-facing wall, thinking to intercept him. He could see nothing amiss, but the sentry was responding to what was clearly an urgent problem.

  Then he saw a man heave himself into a crenel near the tower and scramble through the opening. At the same time a large gray bird rose into the air. It flew a distance several times the height of a man and stopped abruptly, as if held in place by a god. Wings beating the air, crying a frantic kek-kek-kek, it struggled to free itself from what looked like a long cord binding it to the parapet.

  The sentry, with the shorter distance to travel, reached the empty crenel ahead of Bak. He peered through, yelled.

  The bird’s actions grew more frenzied. Bak dashed through the corner tower and came out beside the soldier. Looking out the next crenel, he saw a man climbing rapidly down the wall, finding easy handholds among the eroded mud bricks.

  Snarling an angry curse, the sentry thrust his spear through the crenel and flung it at the fleeing man. The spear struck the fugitive’s shoulder, drawing blood, but the wound failed to slow him. He dropped the last few cubits to the sand below and swung around to face the desert, poised to flee in that direction. Spotting several men racing toward him from the caravan, he pivoted and headed full tilt toward the river. He vanished among a stand of trees at the edge of the water.

  Bak turned away to look at the bird, frantically flapping its wings and crying out for freedom. A falcon, the sacred bird of the lord Horus. A long cord had been tied to its leg and tethered to a spear planted deep within the mudbrick parapet wall. Bak knew nothing of the handling of such birds of prey, but one thing he did know: no man would get close to that frantic creature without protection and knowledge. He leaned over the parapet and called for help to the men below.

  A drover from Buhen, wearing heavy leather gloves and using the patience and gentleness of a man long accustomed to handling such birds, brought the falcon down and cov ered its head to quiet it. Bak stood with Nebwa, looking it over before he set it free. It was a magnificent creature, more than a cubit long from head to tail, with pale feathers below and darker gray above, a hooked beak and long curved talons. Sharp-eyed and deadly when hunting, gentle and loving when satiated. Or so the drover said.

  “Why, in the name of the lord Amon, would anyone tie a bird up here?” Nebwa demanded.

  “The deed was done deliberately,” Bak said. “The man came, left it in the most conspicuous place he could find, and ran away. We were meant to see it now, as the caravan moves out.”

  “Why?” Nebwa repeated, glaring at the falcon.

  Bak had had plenty of time to think while he waited for someone to rescue the bird. “The falcon is a creature of the desert, Nebwa, a creature of Horus.”

  His friend, quick to understand, glared. “You can’t be thinking what I suspect you’re thinking.”

  “Hor-pen-Deshret. Falcon of the desert. I think this bird was meant to announce his return.”

  “No. I don’t believe it.” Hebwa hesitated, then said more thoughtfully, “He is a man who
likes to show off, to prove himself braver and more clever than others. But…” He shook his head. “No, it can’t be true.”

  He spoke, Bak noticed, with less assurance than he had when first he had heard the rumors of Hor-pen-Deshret’s return.

  Bak thought of the many desirable objects he had seen in Amonked’s pavilion, with far more hidden behind the wall hangings, he suspected. If Hor-pen-Deshret did not already know of them he soon would. And the way rumors spread along the river, their content growing faster than aphids on a flower… The very thought was abhorrent.

  “I advise you to sail to the new fortress, sir.” Nebwa was on his best behavior, congenial to a fault. He had refused to dwell on whatever significance the falcon might have had, preferring instead to deal with the more practical con cerns. “It’s not far from Kor, but it’ll be a lot faster than walking up the trail with the caravan. You’d have to use a boat anyway to cross from the west bank to the island on which it’s being built, so you may as well go all the way in comfort.”

  Thus far, Amonked had given no sign that he had heard about the previous night’s confrontation with Horhotep, but neither Nebwa nor Bak had any doubt that the adviser had told him of the incident and, in the telling, had made him self look good at their expense.

  “Captain Minkheper’s task would certainly benefit,” Bak said. “To get a true picture of the Belly of Stones, he must not only speak with men who sail these waters, but he must spend time on the river.”

  “I’d planned to remain with the caravan all the way to

  Semna, letting men and animals rest each time I go off to inspect a fortress.” Amonked glanced toward Horhotep, frowned. If he wanted help in making his decision, he was out of luck. His adviser was too far away, walking along the fortress wall, spear in hand, poking and prodding the mudbricks, apparently checking their integrity.

  “Oh, all right. Perhaps I should travel by skiff.” Amon ked gave Nebwa a cautionary look. “This time, at any rate.”