by Lauren Haney
Lauren Haney of Kubban several days’ sail north of Buhen and knew the reasons behind many decisions obscured by the passage of time. “Iken has been a market city for many generations, from the time of Khakaure Senwosret. When our sover eign’s father, Akheperkare Thutmose, marched up the river with his army and conquered the lands far to the south, he ordered that this market remain open. Not only does it lure products seldom offered to traders, but it brings people to gether in a way not possible for the more formal trading expeditions.”
“To survive and thrive, the market must be kept safe,”
Bak added, thinking of Amonked’s mission. “The reno vated wall discourages raiders, the army holds them at arm’s length.”
“I must admit this city intrigues me.” Amonked stepped over a skinny black dog sprawled across the lane. “Far more than Buhen or any other place I’ve seen so far, it emphasizes the importance of trade to this region.”
Woser’s fast pace and the heavily populated lanes for bade further discussion, allowing Horhotep time to marshal his rebuttal. As they walked out on the northernmost of two long, stone quays, he sidled up to Amonked. “I see no tactical reason for the army to continue its occupation of this garrison. The local people, as sullen as they are, pose no real threat, and I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.”
“I can take no more of that pompous ass,” Nebwa mut tered. “I’ll meet you here when you return from the island.”
He swung around and stalked off, giving Bak no time to plead that he remain.
Amonked watched him go. After bending so far as to request that Nebwa and Bak accompany the inspection party, he had to be displeased by the troop captain’s abdi cation, but as usual his face gave no hint of his feelings.
“You call that structure a fortress. I call it four walls with no purpose.” Horhotep climbed out of the skiff and stood on the quay, looking eastward toward the island from which they had come, impossible to see beyond a closer rocky prominence. “No man of good sense would station soldiers there.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Amonked said, clambering out of the vessel, “it proved itself quite useful when King Amon Psaro came to Iken some months ago.” He glanced at Bak, who waited in the prow while Woser climbed out. “Did you not prevent at that time what could have been a most serious incident, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Nebwa had said, Thuty had sung their praises. But in such detail? Or had Amonked, before he left the capital, read all the reports sent to Waset by the viceroy? A bur densome task. Necessary if a man wished to make a wise decision. A decision that would affect the well-being of thousands of men and women. Would a man be that con scientious if his sole intent was to carry out his sovereign’s wishes?
“The rapids here are fearsome.” Minkheper leaped onto the quay with practiced ease. “Is this the upper limit of those we looked upon yesterday from the watch station?”
“As far as I know.” Scrambling out of the skiff, Bak looked toward Woser for an answer, but the commander had hurried on up the quay to meet Nebwa, leaning against the mooring post closest to shore. “I’ve had no chance to travel farther south.”
“Even with the floodwaters at their highest, I’d not enjoy taking a ship through those rocks.”
After Sennefer climbed out of the boat, the three of them strode up the quay behind the inspector and his adviser. A stiff breeze had come up and the warmth of the early af ternoon sun was filtered through a dusty haze blowing off the desert from the northwest. A faint smell of braised lamb roused Bak’s hunger.
“How has the fortress held up?” Nebwa asked, his good humor restored. “Is it overgrown already with tamarisk and weeds?”
“It’d take some clearing,” Bak admitted, “but Woser could still shelter a king there if need be.”
Nebwa lowered his voice and nodded toward Horhotep.
“What did the visiting swine have to say about it?”
“He…” A movement deep in the shadow of the ware house closest to the quay caught Bak’s eye. He spotted a bow and glimpsed an arrow taking flight. “Look out!”
The missile sped past Amonked, missing him by an arm’s length. Bak raced toward the hidden archer with
Nebwa at his side. A stream of arrows flew past, their course nowhere near, their target uncertain. Too many ar rows for one man to fire, Bak thought, the wild shots of inexperienced men-or men firing in haste or desperation.
Three men armed with bows burst from the shadow and raced like frightened hares into the nearest lane. Bak and
Nebwa sped after them. They turned to the right into an intersecting street and to the left at the next lane. Another turn carried them deeper into the lower city, closer to the escarpment. People leaped out of their way, dogs barked, a small child wailed when an archer kicked its ball far down a lane. Bak feared the trio would split up, but in their panic they ran on together. He feared they would lose themselves in the maze-like lanes, as his assailant had done the pre vious night, but that, too, proved an unnecessary worry. A final turn carried them into a lane that went nowhere.
Bak and Nebwa found them standing at the base of the escarpment, caught in a trap of their own making. Panting for breath, frightened, shamed by so gross a failure, they dropped their bows and quivers to the ground and held their hands at shoulder level, signaling defeat.
“All right,” Nebwa said, “who are you and what, in the name of the lord Amon, did you think you were doing?”
They looked at each other, each man pleading silently with the others to speak up. To think of a tale, Bak suspected, that would make them look as innocent as newborn calves.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen.” He stared at them, his expression stern. “I must know your names and how you earn your bread.”
Each rattled off a name and an occupation. One was an armorer, another butchered meat for the garrison, the third made the heavy leather sandals worn by the troops. Men not of the army, but men whose livelihoods depended upon the army’s continued occupation of the fortress. Bak glanced at Nebwa, who nodded his understanding of the reason behind their foolishness.
Hearing a noise in the lane behind them, Bak glanced back. He could hardly believe his eyes. Amonked and Sen nefer stood in an intersecting lane, too deep in its mouth to be seen by the three bowmen. The inspector’s face was flushed and he was gasping for breath, while Sennefer showed slight strain as a result of the chase.
“Who were you trying to slay?” Nebwa, unaware of the men behind him, looked as severe as Bak had, but his voice carried a suspicious note of humor. “From your lack of skill, the wild manner in which your arrows flew, it was hard to know.”
“We didn’t want to slay anyone,” the butcher wailed.
“We wanted to scare him, that’s all. The inspector.”
“What’ll we do if he tears the army from Iken?” the sandal maker whined. “We all have wives whose families dwell here. Our children know nothing but this city, this land of Wawat.”
“What good would I be with the army gone?” the ar morer asked. “Merchants have no use for weapons.”
Bak secretly blessed the trio. In a few highly emotional words, they had unknowingly told Amonked what he most needed to hear.
Nebwa eyed them long and hard. “What shall we do with them, Lieutenant?”
“We could turn them over to Horhotep.” Bak looked from one man to the next, making sure they understood the worst possible consequence of their actions. “Lieutenant
Horhotep, the inspector’s military adviser is a cold, unfor giving man who’ll insist you be sent to the desert mines as punishment.”
“No!” they chorused, horrified.
“What would happen to our families?” the sandal maker cried.
“My wife. How would she feed our children?” the ar morer wailed.
Nebwa frowned, pretending to think over their fate. “I’d prefer we
turn them over to Commander Woser. They’re his men, his problem.”
“Let them go.” Amonked came up beside the two offi cers, his breathing not yet under control. “I’d guess their attempt at murder frightened them as much as me. I doubt they’ll ever again repeat so foolhardy an action.”
Bak did not know which was the more surprising: the fact that the inspector had managed to follow them or that he had given so generous a judgment. “Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”
“Set them free.”
No men had ever before dropped to their knees in front of Bak and bowed so low their foreheads touched the ground. He was startled-and discomfited-by their ex treme gratitude. Amonked looked unmoved.
Nebwa set a fast pace at the head of the desert patrol
Woser had assigned to escort them south to the caravan.
The ten spearmen who regularly patrolled the desert sands were hard-muscled, tough-thinking young men burned dark by the sun. The sleek, well-groomed men from the capital maintained the same fast pace, but with an effort. Assuming the attempt on Amonked’s life had shown him how vul nerable he was, Bak thought it a good time to probe for information. He drew the inspector off to the side of the column, close enough to be safe, far enough so no one could hear.
They were on high ground, following a trail that would, later in the day, strike off across the desert to avoid a bend in the river, saving many hours’ march over hard, rough terrain. To the east, islands large and small broke the sur face of the glittering ribbon of water contained between tree-lined banks interrupted at times by the mouths of dry watercourses covered with black, fertile soil or by streams of sand spilling out from the desert. In spite of the obsta cles, the river flowed more freely than at any time since they had left Kor.
Amonked studied the surrounding landscape, his face clouded by worry. “Do you think it wise to walk so far from the patrol?”
Since leaving Iken, Bak had seen no one standing along the riverbank, watching them pass. The trees were thick enough to shelter an army, but was not the purpose of the endless watch to be seen? To unnerve with a continuing presence? “I wish to speak of Nefret and Baket-Amon, sir.
If you have no objection to others hearing, we can rejoin them.”
“Our experience in Iken has made me too cautious,”
Amonked admitted, looking chagrined. “If anyone chose to attack us now, we’d see them in plenty of time.”
Bak forced himself not to look again at the river, but the temptation was great. The absence of watchers puzzled him.
Why were they not there as always before? Something must have happened to discourage them, but what? Surely not
Amonked’s kindness to those three witless bowmen. Some thing of far greater significance.
“I know you quarreled with Baket-Amon,” he said.
“So Thaneny told me.” Amonked expelled a humorless laugh. “It was naive of me to believe you’d not learn of the confrontation, but I don’t like to think of myself as a man of no self-control, and to proclaim my irrationality to a stranger is repugnant.”
“Baket-Amon’s reputation with women neared mythical proportions, and your concubine is a very lovely and de sirable woman. You surely know that fact alone places you high among those who might have wished him dead.”
“We argued about her, yes. But would I slay a man for her? Never!”
“Then tell me of your quarrel.”
“I can assure you that our words spoken in anger were quickly forgiven and forgotten. By me, for a fact. By him as well, if I’m the excellent judge of men Maatkare Hat shepsut believes me to be.”
Did he mention his cousin, thinking to intimidate me?
Bak wondered. “To keep the quarrel a secret multiplies my suspicions ten times over.”
The inspector threw him an irritated look. “I’ve no desire to speak further of the matter.”
“Do you want the prince’s death to go unresolved? Do you wish the thought to fester forever in men’s hearts that you slew him?”
Amonked stared, thin-lipped, at the pack of feral dogs ranging across the sandy waste to the west. The animals had abandoned the inspection party in Iken, joining their brethren who dwelt within the walls of the fortress. The caravan had gone on without them, but some ancient in stinct had caused them to again form a band and follow the desert patrol and their lofty charges.
Amonked tore his gaze from the dogs and, with a dis tasteful look, began to speak. “Yes, Baket-Amon desired
Nefret. I’m not certain how often he came to my dwelling in Waset-neither she nor my wife would tell me-but at some point he made a nuisance of himself and the two of them together told me of his visits. I doubt he loved Nefret.
My wife believes that because she held herself aloof while other young women doted on him, she became a challenge he could not resist.”
“I’ve never heard that he pursued a woman uninvited.”
“Nor have I, but my wife assured me such was the case with Nefret. And my wife is a truthful woman.” Amonked looked hard at Bak, daring him to challenge the assertion.
“I confronted the prince and told him he must go away and forget her.”
“He agreed, I assume.”
“He offered to buy her.” Amonked’s annoyance was plain. “As if she were a common servant, one who’d come into my home and my bed to pay off her father’s debts. I set him straight on that score and refused his offer. We quarreled. Unaccustomed to having his wishes denied, he…” Raising his chin high, Amonked said indignantly,
“He called me a selfish old man.”
Selfish and old, Bak thought. Words designed to wound, words no man wishes to repeat when applied to himself.
“Not the judicious response I’d have expected from a royal envoy.”
“Indeed not.”
Bak offered an understanding smile. “You were in censed, I assume, and rightly so.”
“I ordered him out of my house. He refused to leave without hearing from Nefret that she wanted nothing to do with him. I finally threatened to speak to my cousin, Maat kare Hatshepsut, and he hurried away in a huff.”
“Never to return?”
“Never.” Amonked’s eyes darted toward Bak and he added with a certain amount of bitterness, “Why would I slay a man when I have merely to mention my cousin’s name and my least significant wish becomes a command?”
This was a side of the inspector Bak had never imagined, and he liked him better for the admission. He yearned to respond, but could think of nothing appropriate to say. So they walked along together, saying nothing, their silence strained at first but soon strangely comfortable.
Late in the afternoon they stopped at a watch station located on a rocky knob that rose above the surrounding landscape. While Amonked spoke with the sergeant in charge, Bak looked off to the south, where the caravan was making its slow way across the rolling, sandswept land scape, leaving behind the river and the wrath of the people who dwelt along its banks.
A soldier on duty pointed out, some distance to the west, a half-dozen ant-sized figures. “I thought at first they were nomads coming to the river for water, but instead they trav eled a parallel course to the caravan. Now, with the sun at their backs, making it hard to see them, they’re getting closer.”
Bak shaded his eyes with his hand. “They’re up to no good, we must assume, but what do they hope to gain? Our archers could decimate so small a group in no time at all.”
The inspection party rejoined the caravan as the sun sank toward the western horizon. Bidding good-bye to the desert patrol, who hastened east toward the river, they walked forward along the line of donkeys. They found the men in the lead unloading their animals and setting up camp on a broad sweep of desert with a cluster of sandy hillocks off to the west. Seshu stood in the midst of the commotion, issuing orders with skill and authority. Leaving the others to go their own way, Bak and Nebwa walked to him.
As they spoke of the next day’s march, the lord Re se
t tled on the horizon, preparing to enter the netherworld. The yellow-gold feral dog to which the bundle of sandals had been tied crouched among the piles of supplies, waiting to steal any food it could grab. The creature raised its head and sniffed the air, drawing Bak’s attention. It stood, trotted up the shallow slope to the west, and stopped to sniff again.
The hair rose on the back of its neck and it began to bark.
Other dogs raced up from all directions and they sped out across the desert, barking for all they were worth. Nebwa and Bak exchanged a silent query: a gazelle? Or the nomads they had seen from the watch station?
Before they could go see for themselves, a half-dozen men crested a hillock. The dogs stopped to watch from a safe distance. With the light behind the men, detail was lacking, but Bak could make out long spears and shields.
The sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the sky in one last brilliant flash of color. The figures were for a short time fully visible. Six men of the desert, one standing out from the rest. A man clad in a red kilt, with a red feather rising above his hair.
Nebwa spat out an oath. “Hor-pen-Deshret.”
“The swine has come,” Seshu said with venom.
“He must be the reason we’ve seen no people along the river,” Bak said.
“I’d not be surprised.” Nebwa glared at the men across the sand. “He raided farms and hamlets all along the west bank, taking the animals and harvest for his people and impoverishing the farmers. After he became more daring, robbing caravans and gaining more booty in a single attack than he had during a dozen before, he continued to take what was theirs.”
“He’s come to look us over, to evaluate the risk and gain.” Seshu’s expression was bleak. “I feared something like this would happen. So rich a caravan draws raiders like ants to grease.”
Nebwa was equally grim. “For every man we see, he’ll have eight or ten behind him, camped out of sight some where on the desert.”
“He’s surely heard of Amonked’s mission,” Bak said.
“Wouldn’t he be wise to hold off, waiting until the army is torn from the Belly of Stones?”