by Lauren Haney
Bak threw a smile his way. “It’s also important to keep the donkeys alive and unhurt.”
“Pawah will be grateful. He’s worried about them, es pecially the foals.” The nobleman glanced toward the sun, not quite halfway between midday and dusk, tinting shreds of cloud a pale yellow. “Shouldn’t we be on our way?”
“You don’t have to come with me, you know. You could stand at Amonked’s side.”
Sennefer’s voice turned wry. “Horhotep calls an ambush dirty fighting, not the stuff of real soldiers. I wish to judge for myself.”
Laughing, each man took up a bow and a quiver filled to bursting, a long spear and shield, and lesser arms for close conflict. Bak also carried a staff the length and weight of his baton of office. Fully arrayed and sobered by the weaponry, rude reminders of the impending battle, they strode into the wadi.
Bak sat on a low, flat rock high up on a steep slope of broken stone that had fallen through the years from the face of the cliff behind him. Located midway along the northern side of the wadi, he was plainly visible to every member of his small force of archers and spearmen. Pashenuro was hidden across the dry watercourse, a hundred or so paces farther west on a high knob of rock atop the escarpment.
From there, the Medjay could see the open desert beyond and Hor-pen-Deshret’s army. Equipped with a polished mirror, he would signal a silent warning if the tribal leader posted lookouts above the cliff, or when the enemy marched in force into the wadi. Bak carried a second mirror to relay the message to the men positioned along the op posite slope, unable to see the Medjay. Pawah, out of sight in a shady cleft at the base of the cliff below Pashenuro, would relay longer and more complicated verbal messages.
Bak looked to right and left, checking his men for what must have been the hundredth time. The moment Pashenuro signaled, every man would vanish, but now most were vis ible, spread out along the facing slopes, standing or kneel ing or sitting near whatever shelter they had chosen: fallen slabs of rock, holes dug into the scree, deeply shadowed fissures in the cliff face. The cover was not as good as he would have liked, but it would have to do.
Through Pawah, Pashenuro had reported that the tribesmen had spread out for many thousands of paces along the desert trail, but were slowly collecting at the head of the wadi. In spite of his own impatience to get on with the battle, Bak had to laugh. Hor-pen-Deshret must be furious at the need to wait while half his army straggled in.
He thought of Nebwa and his modest troop of spearmen and drovers. Unlike his own men, who had to speak quietly so their words would not carry to the enemy, Nebwa’s men would be laughing and talking, making a pretense of nor mality behind their barricade of shields. Not until the tribes men came streaming out of the wadi would the men within the encampment take up positions among the high piles of supplies and equipment carefully placed to impede their foe. He also imagined Lieutenant Ahmose’s force, equally small but better trained, concealed in nearby fields, crushing some poor farmer’s crops.
A stiff breeze ruffled Bak’s hair and dried the sweat on his body. Swallows, their voices sharp and squeaky, darted back and forth overhead, carrying insects to nests in the cliff. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked up the wadi to the west. The lord Re hovered some distance above the horizon, with at least two more hours’ journey before entering the netherworld. The tribesmen must make their move shortly or night would fall before the battle was won.
Though outnumbered two to one, Bak felt confident the combined force of drovers, guards, and soldiers would win.
The lord Amon most often smiled upon men who took steps beyond the usual and expected. As they certainly had over the past few days.
He was sorry the local people had refused to take up arms on their behalf. With Amonked threatening to disrupt their lives and Baket-Amon’s widow seeking solace in ven geance, the respect he and Nebwa had gained through the years had proven of little value. At least the old headman
Rona had helped even the odds. His tale of a treasure ripe to be plucked had drawn the enemy… Well, not yet into their arms, but close.
Bak wondered if he would ever lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer. He felt he was on the right path, and if the two attempts on his life told true, the man he sought thought so, too. Yet he had no idea who the murderer might be. Of all the men who had come from Waset with the inspection party, none had let slip any hint of guilt. Were his instincts betraying him? Was the slayer someone else altogether, the assaults mere coincidence, the reason for the murder something he had never thought of?
Lieutenant Ahmose had mentioned rumors of a murder sometime in the past. Had Baket-Amon actually taken a life during a night of carousing? Or was the tale a figment of the imagination, grown out of proportion by the passage of time and many wagging tongues? If true, this might well be the incident that had made the prince so averse to cru elty. What words had Sennefer used? Yes, “the harsher ex cesses of the bedchamber.”
The murder had not occurred in Wawat. The way rumors traveled along the river, a tale of that magnitude would be impossible to keep quiet. Nofery would certainly have heard and, thanks to her unbridled curiosity, would have sought out the truth. Nor did Bak think the incident hap pened on an official hunting trip. There again, word would spread like the wind, and Maatkare Hatshepsut would have banished Baket-Amon from the royal house. After all, he was a wretched foreigner, a prince of no note, not worthy of forgiveness of so heinous a crime.
The incident must have occurred in a place of business in the land of Kemet. It could have happened at any loca tion along the river but, as the prince spent most of his time in Waset, the odds were good that it took place there. The capital held many houses of pleasure, no two alike, each offering an infinite variety of delights. Some far from wholesome.
Pawah had been traded to the proprietor of such an es tablishment, one who had subjected the boy to unspeakable cruelties, so Thaneny had said. Only the lord Amon knew what the child had suffered before Sennefer bought him.
Sennefer had bought Pawah! Bak shot to his feet, opened his hand so the small mirror he held could catch the sun, and signaled the boy to come.
“Can you tell me what Prince Baket-Amon looked like?”
Bak kept his voice level, his hope tamped down, and spoke softly so the words would not carry.
Pawah struggled to catch his breath after his long dash across the wadi and up the steep incline. “No, sir. I never saw him.” He, too, kept his voice low.
Bak could barely maintain a calm facade. “Never once, though he was a frequent visitor to Amonked’s home in
Waset?”
“I always accompany my master when he leaves the house, and when we’re home, when I’m not running er rands, I keep to my place with the other servants.”
Bak gave a silent shout of joy and at the same time cursed himself for being so slow to see the truth. He had forgotten the child’s true position in Amonked’s household.
“He was a tall man, Pawah. Heavy, impressive in appear ance. He dressed as a man of wealth from the land of Ke met, but his dusky skin identified him as having come from
Wawat. He often wore a gold pendant of the ram-headed lord Amon and he…”
The boy’s eyes widened with recognition-and shock.
And a dawning fear much more intense than when he had blurted out his secret of seeing two people slain. A fear close to panic. “I… I can’t say, sir.”
“You mean you won’t say.”
“Yes, sir. No! That is…” Pawah’s eyes darted in the direction from which he had come, his desire to flee pal pable. “Sir, I must get back to Pashenuro. The men of the desert could come down the wadi at any moment.”
Bak caught the youth by his slick, sweaty shoulders.
“He’ll signal if he needs you. If not, you can await them here as easily as there.”
Pawah twisted and squirmed, trying to get away. Bak dared not allow him to run, perhaps to vanish forever in the depths of the desert out of which he h
ad originally come. The youth’s reaction spoke of a knowledge that must be aired.
“I don’t know what you fear, Pawah, but you have my word that no harm will come to you.”
“I must go back to Pashenuro, sir. I must!”
“The more people who know what you hold in your heart, the safer you’ll be. You must begin with me, here and now.”
The youth’s will crumpled, as did the strength in his legs.
He dropped onto the flat rock and Bak sat down beside him, close enough to grab him should he try to run.
“Now tell me what you know of Baket-Amon.”
“He… He came often to Thutnofer’s house of plea sure.” Pawah’s voice trembled, he looked close to tears.
“We didn’t know his name. Thutnofer-whose place of business it was-always called him the ram of Wawat, and so the rest of us thought of him.” His eyes flooded. He wiped tears away with the back of his hand, making streaks on his face. “I’m sorry he’s dead. He…” The boy faltered, added lamely, “He was a good man.”
Bak looked up the wadi, listening, waiting. The swallows shot back and forth, their grating notes as quick as their flight. He saw no sign of Pashenuro atop the opposing cliff, no warning signal. He laid a hand on the youth’s back and allowed gentleness to enter his voice. “Was he involved in the murders you spoke of yesterday?”
The boy stared at his hands, clutched tight together in his lap. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what happened, Pawah, what started the trou ble.”
“Meretre.” A long pause, then, “The ram of… the prince could’ve bought her ten times over-and I prayed many times to the lady Hathor that he would-but my prayers went unanswered.” He bit his lip, blinked hard.
“She was barely a woman, untouched by any man. A special treat of great value, Thutnofer liked to say. He held her back, tempting one and all with her youth and beauty.”
Tears spilled over. “She was my friend, as close as a sister to me. We were meant to share a like fate.” The boy squeezed his eyes tight as if to rid himself of memory. “I shall miss her always.”
Bak guessed a deeper secret, one he needed to know for a fact. “What fate was that, Pawah?”
“It’s not important!”
A bright flash of light flitted across Bak’s breast. His head snapped up, his eyes darted toward Pashenuro’s hiding place. Another flash of light, this of longer duration, that was meant to be seen by all who were posted on the north ern side of the wadi. The men vanished from sight as if abducted by the gods. Bak took up his own mirror and repeated the signal, alerting the men on the opposite incline.
They, too, scurried out of sight.
“They’re coming!” Pawah whispered.
Catching the boy by the arm, Bak hustled him up the slope and into the deep shadow beneath an overhanging segment of cliff, where they could not be seen from the wadi floor. His weapons and shield lay against the wall.
The swallows wheeled through the air near the alcove, their squeaks loud and angry, scolding the intruders.
“Were you also being held back, Pawah, as Meretre was?”
Hope for a respite fled from the boy’s eyes. He lowered his head, hiding his shame, and spoke so softly Bak could barely hear. “The two of us, she and I together, were dis played over and over again to whet the appetites of wealthy customers.”
Bak muttered a curse. A girl of twelve or so years, a boy of eight or nine. A package to sell to the highest bidder.
Could this be the child’s secret, he wondered, the reason he’s so afraid? No, he was a long way from Thutnofer’s house of pleasure, safe from that particular degradation.
“Sennefer didn’t buy the two of you, did he?” He doubted the nobleman that kind of man, but the question had to be asked.
“Oh, no, sir! He found me after I ran away.”
So Thutnofer still owns the boy, Bak thought. Or perhaps
Sennefer or Amonked went to the swine with an offer he could not refuse. “Did Meretre flee with you?”
Looking as miserable as a child could look, Pawah stared down at his hands, shook his head.
Bak’s heart went out to him. Whatever had happened must have been horrendous indeed. “You must tell me, Pa wah.”
The tears began to roll in earnest; sobs broke the youth’s words into phrases. “One night… Three years ago, it must’ve been. A man came into Thutnofer’s establishment.
It was fairly early, but business was good, the rooms filled with pleasure-seekers. Meretre and I were on display.” He tried to stifle his sobs, failed. “The man was young and well-formed, his name Menu. He’d come in before, but never had he been so… So full of himself. So demanding.
He drew Thutnofer aside. Seldom taking their eyes off Mer etre, they sat in a quiet corner and talked. Sometimes their words grew heated. Sometimes they spoke as the closest of friends. In the end, a bargain was struck. Thutnofer raised his hand and beckoned her.”
Sobs choked off the boy’s words; his body shuddered with anguish. He slumped to the ground and clasped his legs close to his breast as if to still the spasms, the sound.
Bak knelt beside him, considered pulling him close, hug ging him. He could not. Pawah was nearly a man, old enough to take offense should anyone treat him as a child.
While the youth exhausted his tears, Bak peeked outside their shelter. Other than the swallows, which had returned to their feeding, not a creature stirred. Then he heard a sound, words as elusive as a puff of smoke carried on the air. Shading his eyes with a hand, he looked toward the upper end of the dry watercourse. He glimpsed, coming out of the sun’s glare, one small figure, two, five, a dozen, striding down the path along the wadi floor.
The tribesmen were talking to one another-bragging,
Bak suspected, reinforcing their courage with bravado. At the same time, they were cautious, looking to right and left, glancing back as if to make sure they were not alone, that other men were following. They may not have been told that the spies Hor-pen-Deshret had sent out were missing, but they had to assume all who traveled with the caravan were prepared to hold off an attack, with soldiers from the garrison to help.
Pawah, his eyes puffy and almost dry, scooted up beside
Bak. “How long before we set upon them?” he whispered.
“Not until Pashenuro signals that the last man is within range. We’ve a while yet. They’re spread out far too much for their own good.” Keeping his eyes on the approaching men and others appearing behind, Bak said, “Menu pur chased a few hours with Meretre, you told me. Did Baket Amon arrive about that time and interfere?”
“Would that he had,” the youth said fervently.
“What did happen?”
The boy tried to look defiant. “Can I not tell you later?
After we face these miserable barbarians?”
Bak caught the boy’s chin, pulled his head around, and looked him straight in the eye. “Pawah, if you hadn’t gone out with Pashenuro to spy on the tribesmen, we’d not be here today, with a good chance of winning the battle. None theless, I feel like turning you over my knee and spanking you.”
Pawah’s face flamed, he swallowed hard.
“I want no more evasion, do you hear me?” Bak said, releasing his chin.
The youth’s eyes teared, but anger and pride kept them from overflowing. “Menu took her to the back of the build ing. Thutnofer bade me carry on, walking around the room, showing myself to best advantage. I did so, all the while trying not to think of Meretre, thinking of nothing else. And all the while Thutnofer bragged of the wealth Menu had exchanged for her. A house-not large, he kept saying, but of good value in a city as crowded as Waset.” The boy’s words resonated with fury. “I hated Thutnofer. I wanted to slay him with my own two hands. But I could do nothing.”
The foremost group of tribesmen reached a point im mediately below their shelter, giving Bak his first good look at Hor-pen-Deshret. The tribal leader walked at the head of his army, strutting like a
high-bred stallion. He was tall and lean and glistened with oil recently rubbed onto his body.
He wore a leather kilt painted red, studded with circles of metal. A broad multicolored beaded collar adorned his up per chest, he wore wide leather bracelets and anklets, and a bright red feather rose from his short dark curly hair. He carried a long spear and a shield decorated with a red chev ron design.
His army followed, loose clumps of men, widespread in many cases, coming down the trail in no particular order.
Where their leader was a show horse, they were donkeys.
Men dressed in leather or linen or wool, simple garb, un adorned, often ragged and patched. Men dragged away from their wives and children and flocks, wearing on their backs all they had brought with them, in many cases all they owned.
Bak longed to attack then and there, to slay with his own hands the man who had lured these people off the desert with promises of glory and wealth. He spurned the urge.
That rag-tag army had to be crushed, putting an end forever to dreams of a tribal coalition.
Pawah, his voice husky with raw emotion, said, “Time passed. How many hours, I don’t know. One, maybe two, maybe longer. When only a few men remained, Thutnofer ordered me away, telling me to get on with my duties as a household servant.” The boy’s face took on a strained look.
“As I walked toward the back of the building, I passed the sole room that had a wooden door. I heard beyond that door a terrible cry. A woman in desperate need.” His voice broke, words merged with sobs. “I knew before I flung the door wide that it was Meretre.”
Bak placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. By this time, he had an idea of what must have happened.
Tears rolled down Pawah’s cheeks. “There she was, lying on the sleeping pallet, beaten and bloody, her life flowing away. A filthy, bloody rag muffled her screams. That vile beast Menu was on his knees astraddle her, his fist red with her blood, the rest of him smeared with it.” Gasping for air through his sobs, Pawah gave Bak a look wild with anger and pain. “I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to her. I ran away, screaming, to the front of the building.”