Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  “And let Hor-pen-Deshret besiege us?” Nebwa laughed, harsh and cynical. “I think not. The fortress has been un dermanned and poorly equipped for many years. They store sufficient supplies for only their own men and animals, with barely enough extra to help out the rare caravan in need.

  We’d get exceedingly hungry awaiting relief, even if for merely a few days.”

  Horhotep’s haughty smile would have quashed a lesser man. “Then we must hasten south to the safety of Semna.”

  “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to defend a caravan spread out across the desert?” Bak did not bother to hide his contempt. “We could probably hold off a hun dred men, maybe two hundred. But twice that number?

  No!”

  “We’d be offering ourselves up to slaughter,” Pawah said. The boy had been very quiet after the tongue lashing his master had given him for going on his nighttime ad venture without telling him of his mission.

  The adviser shot the boy an angry look. “Then Mistress

  Nefret and Amonked must go to Askut. And Sennefer and

  Minkheper as well.”

  Nebwa snorted. “All the important people, you mean.”

  Horhotep’s chin shot into the air, he feigned indignation.

  “Not at all. I mean those of us who came from Waset.

  Thaneny, Pawah, Mesutu. The porters. We’ve no reason to be dragged into a local squabble.”

  “Squabble?” Bak would have laughed if the situation had not been so perilous.

  Amonked looked directly at his adviser, and his voice turned hard and decisive. “Nefret will go with Mesutu and they’ll take my dog with them. Thaneny and Pawah may go if they wish.”

  “I won’t!” Pawah said, looking defiant.

  “I, for one, intend to remain,” Amonked went on, “and

  I believe any man trained as a soldier should welcome the opportunity to prove himself.”

  Color flooded Horhotep’s cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

  Bak stifled an urge to clap the inspector on the back. He doubted Amonked knew the first thing about facing the enemy on the field of battle, but he certainly had the cour age of his convictions. A courage that would allow a man of ordinary abilities to slay an individual he deemed un worthy. A man like Baket-Amon. Yet the more he saw of

  Amonked, the more difficult it was to imagine him taking a life for any reason whatsoever.

  “You’ve no need to worry, Lieutenant. My wife will tend to her as if she were her own sister.”

  Bak smiled at Lieutenant Ahmose, commander of the fortress of Askut, a tall, thin, balding man of forty or so years. “I hope you’re wed to a patient woman. Nefret has much to complain about.”

  “She lives in the household of a wealthy nobleman and she’s unhappy with her lot?” Ahmose laughed. “She should dwell in a godforsaken place like this.”

  Bak glanced around the room in which they sat, a good sized white plastered space with a ceiling supported by a single red column, bright with fresh paint. Except for its smaller proportions, the audience hall beyond the door could easily compete with that of Buhen, with six newly painted octagonal wooden columns supporting the ceiling and walls enlivened by crisp multicolored decorations. If any smell remained in the fresh colors, it was overwhelmed by the odors of braised fowl and new-baked bread wafting from the upper floor. Officers and sergeants hurried back and forth, talking of weapons and battle. Four soldiers sat on the floor with scribes, dictating letters to their loved ones in far-off Kemet, while a dozen or more others awaited their turn. Letters prompted by the knowledge that they might soon be facing the enemy on the field of battle.

  “Askut is remote, yes,” Bak said, “but this building is impressive, and I presume your quarters are, too.”

  “I keep them so for my wife and her servants. I’d not enjoy spending the rest of my assignment here alone.”

  Bak smiled at what was clearly an understatement.

  Ahmose settled back on his chair, a simple affair with a low, no doubt uncomfortable back and no arms, a definite step down from those of Commandant Thuty and Com mander Woser. “To bring the woman today, you must be lieve a conflict imminent.”

  “We sent a man to spy on Hor-pen-Deshret’s camp and…” Pushing his stool back to rest his spine against a column, Bak spoke of all they had learned and all they had accomplished since Nebwa’s visit the previous day. The voices in the audience hall faded away, shoved aside by thoughts more imperative.

  “As for the confrontation itself,” he went on, “we’ve cre ated a plan we believe will work. You know the terrain far better than we do, so I’ve come to share that plan, thinking you can spot potential problems and make suggestions for improvement.”

  “Anything I can do to help, I will.” Clearly flattered, the officer leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin cradled in his hand.

  “We’re assuming,” Bak said, “that at least half Hor-pen Deshret’s men will have passed through the wadi to attack the caravan by the time the last man enters at the upper, desert end.”

  Ahmose nodded. “The trek from Shelfak isn’t difficult, but what begins as a tight and compact group will gradually spread out, with many stragglers. I doubt Hor-pen-Deshret or anyone else could hold a group that large together for long.”

  “So we thought.” Bak rubbed the healing, itching scab on his shoulder. “While Nebwa and his forces defend the caravan, holding off the first wave of men to charge, I’ll lead a surprise attack in the wadi, with the archers at first picking them off from a distance and the spearmen follow ing at closer hand. Those able to stand and run-less than half, we hope-we’ll chase into the valley, where they’ll join the larger band attacking the caravan.

  “If your troops come in from the north while mine are approaching from the south, and with Nebwa’s men inside the barricade of shields, we’ll have the enemy trapped within a triangle, which we can squeeze around them until they become our prisoners.”

  Ahmose sat back in the chair, nodded. “Simple and straightforward. A good plan.”

  “Now let’s see if we can make it better.”

  “Can you eat another pigeon?” Ahmose’s wife asked.

  She was close in age to her husband, short and plump, a woman whose very ordinary looks were greatly enhanced by her cheerful disposition and merry smile.

  Bak, who could well understand why Ahmose wished to keep her by his side, patted his full stomach. “Another bite and I’d burst. I haven’t had such a fine meal since I came south to Wawat.”

  She smiled, pleased at the compliment.

  He adjusted the woven reed mat on which he sat and glanced around the second-story courtyard, alive with pot ted acacias and flowers, a white calf orphaned at birth, and hints of domesticity such as a grindstone and loom. The woman was the consummate homemaker, he was con vinced. “How’s mistress Nefret adapting?”

  She glanced at her husband, a query on her face. His nod encouraged her to speak openly. Laughing softly, she said,

  “She’s not yet recovered from the shock of seeing me elbow-to-elbow with my servants, preparing our food.”

  Bak smiled. “She knows nothing of the world as it ac tually is. You’d be doing Amonked a favor if you took her around Askut, introducing her to the other women, showing her how they live. Giving her an idea of how pampered she is, how lucky.”

  She looked doubtful. “My husband and I live much better than most on this island.”

  “I’ve seen that for myself and so should she.” Bak emp tied his beer jar, added, “You needn’t dwell on the hard life here, simply introduce her to the women and chat with them as you normally do. Let her think for herself, reaching her own conclusions.”

  She left the courtyard, her face a picture of indecision.

  “She’ll do the right thing,” Ahmose assured him, shifting his mat away from a wedge of sunlight.

  Bak fervently hoped she would, not solely for Nefret but for all the women. With their husbands marching off to do battle, they needed a
distraction. He glanced up at the sun.

  Not long past midday. He must soon return to the caravan, to last-minute preparations for battle. Ahmose also looked upward, equally concerned with the passage of time.

  Bak said, “You know of Baket-Amon’s death and my need to lay hands on the slayer.”

  “I do.” The officer took a handful of dates from a bowl and pushed it across the floor toward his guest. “You surely know that even if you were to snare him within the hour, we’d have to face Hor-pen-Deshret with no help from those who dwell along the river. Too few would arrive in time.”

  “I’ve accepted already that we must do battle without them, but that doesn’t relieve me from my task.” Using natron as a cleanser, Bak scrubbed the grease from his hands. “Did you know the prince?”

  “He never came to Askut. He had no need. Rona looks after the people in this part of the valley as if they’re his own children. I’ve always dealt with the old man. I respect him, and I like to think he respects me.”

  Ahmose’s age told Bak he was a part of the old guard, men appointed for their noble heritage or out of patronage, men like Horhotep who fought their battles in the corridors of the royal house. His attitude, however, spoke of the younger, newly rebuilt army, made up of men highly trained in the arts of war, wary of other men’s help in rising through the ranks, less inclined to feel themselves above all others.

  “You must know of the prince’s reputation.”

  Ahmose smiled. “Before I came to Askut, I dwelt in

  Waset, performing liaison duties between the royal house and the regiment of Amon. Gossip lightened my load on many a dull afternoon. His name came up among all the others, and I’ve since heard more.”

  Bak had been a part of that regiment, but he had no memory of Ahmose. Not surprising since, as a chariotry officer, he had spent much of his time in the stables and out on the practice field. “Did you know Amonked at that time?”

  Ahmose’s smile broadened. “I served in a tiny building behind the royal house, listening to the lions roar in our sovereign’s zoo. I never reached those lofty heights.”

  Bak returned the smile. He had a feeling he would enjoy serving with this officer, a man of good sense, having no delusions and no pretensions. “Since I began this quest, I’ve heard many praises of Baket-Amon’s talents in the bed chamber and his skills as a sportsman. The two activities dominated his life. I suspect what I seek has something to do with one or the other, something that happened some time in the past.”

  “Hmmm.” Ahmose rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “There was a tale going round…” His voice tailed off, his brow furrowed in thought. “What was it?”

  Bak remained mute, waiting, praying to the lord Amon.

  “Let’s see. It was about three years ago. While still I dwelt in Waset.” Ahmose’s eyes popped open and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember! It was only a rumor, mind you. I don’t know how much truth there was to it.”

  “Believe me, the vaguest of rumors is better than what I have now.”

  Ahmose gave him an fleeting smile. “The way I recall the tale, Baket-Amon slew a man during a night of carous ing. I’m not sure where this occurred. Probably in Waset, since that’s where I heard, but it could’ve happened any where. Maybe here in Wawat.” He paused, frowned. “The incident might’ve been untrue. Or it could’ve been hushed up. As far as I know, nothing ever came of it.”

  If the prince killed a man… Yes, revenge would be more than enough reason to take his life. But why wait three years? Amonked and every individual in his party had known Baket-Amon in Waset. They would have had mul tiple opportunities to slay him there, where the odds against being caught were far greater than in the much smaller fron tier post of Buhen.

  Another thought struck. Could this rumored murder be the same as the crime witnessed by Pawah? The odds were long, he knew, but it was just possible.

  “I thank the lord Amon you’ve returned!” Bak laid one arm over Pashenuro’s shoulders, another over Pawah’s, and ushered them to the archers’ hearth. The fire was out, the twenty men from Buhen nowhere to be seen. “I feared you’d been captured.”

  “We almost were!” Pawah practically danced with ex citement. “Only Pashenuro’s quick wits saved us.”

  “You exaggerate,” the Medjay said, cuffing the boy on the back of his head.

  “I don’t!” Pawah looked at Bak and his words bubbled over. “Hor-pen-Deshret sent out a hunting party, and we were the game they sought. If we hadn’t found a stand of reeds in the river, and if Pashenuro hadn’t thought to cut two off to use as breathing tubes so we could stay under water, they’d’ve caught us for sure.”

  Pashenuro shrugged. “The child enlarges my actions and my good sense; otherwise he tells the truth. They were awaiting us, and we came close to getting caught. If a cou ple of dogs hadn’t gone with us, if they hadn’t barked a warning, we’d’ve walked into their arms.”

  “How’d they know to expect you?”

  “The sentry we talked to last night must’ve spoken of our presence.” Pashenuro looked around the encampment, emptied of about half the men. Those who remained went about their usual business, but with speech and laughter too loud and raucous, betraying a heightened tension. “Where is everyone, sir?”

  “Assuming the tribesmen would strike today, as you guessed they would, we thought it best to position the men in the wadi long before they come.” Bak gave the Medjay a sharp look. “Are they on their way?”

  “What of those wretched men who’ve been watching the caravan?” Pawah asked. “Won’t they warn their friends of an ambush?”

  Bak handed each of his spies a jar of beer. “They’ve not moved, nor will they.”

  “They met an early death?” the Medjay guessed.

  “Very early. Soon after you came back this morning.”

  He spotted Amonked and Nebwa circling around a bar rier built of water jars. The inspector’s relief at seeing Pawah alive and unhurt was evident. Dropping to the ground to sit beside the boy, he gave him a look blending fondness and pride. Nebwa sat on the low circle of bricks that formed the hearth.

  “While we hid underwater, we couldn’t hear a thing.”

  Pashenuro evidently saw no need to go back to the begin ning and repeat himself. “When the tribesmen moved on along the river’s edge, we sheltered behind a drifting log so we could raise our heads and listen.” He glanced at Pa wah, who continued:

  “They were arguing over where and when the caravan should be attacked. About half thought they should await us on the open desert, but the rest swore Hor-pen-Deshret was close to a god and whatever he deemed right should never be questioned. It sounded as if the decision had been made, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “So they’re quarreling among themselves,” Nebwa said.

  “Good.”

  Thinking of all the men poised to do battle later in the day, Bak asked, “Where’s their main force? Are they still camped near Shelfak? Or are they on their way north?”

  “The instant we could safely do so, we left the river and sped out onto the desert. The decision had indeed been made.” Pashenuro flashed a smile. “We could hardly miss that wretched army, a rag-tag bunch if I ever saw one, coming north across the barren sands. We were too far away to hear them speak and the landscape too flat and open to let us draw closer. But we had no doubt they were marching off to combat.”

  “They’re coming to us, as we’d hoped,” Bak said.

  “So it seems.”

  “Rag-tag army,” Nebwa said. “Do you mean their cloth ing is worn and ragged or that there’s no order to their march?”

  “Both.” Pashenuro, who had been trained as a soldier before becoming a policeman, knew exactly what Nebwa was getting at. “I saw few signs of a cohesive force, sir.

  Any man who falls behind is left to his own resources. In the hour we watched, more than two dozen men simply walked away, abandoning their fellows.”

 
; Nebwa eyed the Medjay speculatively. “Would it be fair to say the alliance is fragile?”

  “I suspect only Hor-pen-Deshret is holding it together.”

  Nebwa and Amonked left, each going his own way de pending on what he had to do before the call to arms. Bak held Pashenuro and Pawah back so he could give them fresh orders. The Medjay would serve as the forward look out, located in a spot where he could warn of the enemy’s approach; the youth would carry any messages too lengthy to signal with a mirror. Eager to get on with their new tasks, the pair stood up to leave.

  Bak held Pawah back. “Did Prince Baket-Amon patron ize the house of pleasure where you dwelt in Waset?” With out realizing he was doing so, he held his breath in anticipation.

  Pawah glanced toward Pashenuro, standing off to the side, waiting. The look was a silent but obvious apology for the delay. “I doubt he was, sir. Would so lofty a man ever visit a place so low?”

  Disappointed in spite of himself, Bak let the boy go.

  Could Pawah have erred? he wondered. Not likely. The prince had been a man not easily forgotten.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Won’t those foul nomads notice as soon as they come out of the wadi that the animals are no longer with the cara van?” Sennefer asked.

  Bak, standing at the nobleman’s side, watched the long line of donkeys trotting three and four abreast down the path toward the river. A half-dozen drovers were with them, keeping them out of the adjoining fields and hurrying them along. Each man carried a shield and a spear and smaller weapons of choice tied to his belt.

  “They’ll spot them on the island right away.” Seeing the foremost donkeys plunge into the water, he turned away and strode toward the boulder on which they had left their weapons. “With luck and the will of the gods, a respectable number will imagine instant wealth in the oases animal markets, and they’ll break away from the main body to go after them. Lieutenant Ahmose has already stationed arch ers among the rocks.”

  “Divide and conquer.”