by Lauren Haney
The tribesmen, bedraggled and worn in defeat, squatted in the shade of the fortress wall or milled about on the patch of sand where they were being held, one of the few rela tively level spots on the rocky prominence on which the fortress of Askut stood. They were ringed by guards to prevent escape, apprehensive about whatever punishment they might face, worried for their families far out in the desert, making tensions run high and feelings lie close to the surface. To add to their sense of defeat and unease, the walking wounded had been left among them, while the more seriously injured had been carried into the fortress, their fate unknown.
Voices drifted up from the passage within the massive twin-towered main gate, and presently Lieutenant Ahmose and Amonked climbed onto the battlements. The latter, un accustomed to the long ladders used in exterior defenses for ease of removal in case of attack, stepped onto the roof top with obvious relief. Ahmose followed with an agility that attested to his many years in the garrisons of Kemet.
The pair strode along the broad walkway atop the wall to join Bak and Nebwa on the imposing tower that formed the sharpest corner of the roughly triangular stronghold.
Amonked raised his staff of office in greeting, scanned the panorama spread out before him, and smiled as if all was right with the world. “You may have to lower me down that wretched tower with a rope, but the view from up here is spectacular enough to make the humiliation worthwhile.”
The genial smile faded, replaced by a gravity befitting the inspector. He studied the fortress’s commanding posi tion on the island, the immense expanse of landscape vis ible all around, and the water flowing on all sides, a moat provided by the gods. The island was little more than a gigantic rock on which pockets of earth supported trees, brush, and a few hard-won garden plots. A place easy to defend and difficult to assault. Yet, like Buhen and the other fortresses along the Belly of Stones, it had fallen more than once in the past, when official neglect had left it poorly manned, its too few troops abandoned.
Across the western channel, the caravan could be seen, reduced in size by distance. The donkeys, returned from their island refuge, grazed on the trampled weeds and grass south of the encampment. The piles of foodstuffs and equipment which had proven such useful obstacles during the fighting had been redistributed in preparation for the next segment of the journey south, the long march to
Semna.
“Have you and Lieutenant Horhotep finished your in spection, sir?” Nebwa asked.
Bak resisted a smile. Since fighting at Amonked’s side, what had remained of the troop captain’s resentment had melted away and his use of the word “sir” was a true sign of respect.
“We have, and I must admit I’m impressed. At least half the space inside these walls is unused, a veritable garbage dump, but the small force here has made the utmost use of the remainder.”
“We do what we can, sir,” Ahmose said pedantically.
Amonked looked down at the prisoners and his smile faded. “What shall we do with those men?”
Bak queried Nebwa with a glance. He was not sure if the question was rhetorical or genuine. The troop captain shrugged, as mystified as he.
“I believe all threat of a coalition has been banished for some time,” Bak said, assuming the inspector truly wanted their counsel. “Hor-pen-Deshret has lost credibility. Thanks to him, there’s not much likelihood that any other man who covets riches and power will be able to lure men from the desert in numbers anywhere near those we faced yester day.” Ever mindful of Ahmose’s mission and their sover eign’s wish to tear the army from the Belly of Stones, he added, “For how long we can lay down our guard, I make no prediction.”
“Even if tempted, the tribesmen would refuse,” Nebwa added. “At least, in the near future. Too many men are dead and injured, leaving too many families alone and hungry, women and children and the aged who must now be fed by the more fortunate among them.”
Amonked walked to a crenel and looked at the men whose fate he held in his hands. “By rights, we should send to Waset all who are well enough to travel, offering them as servants to the royal house and the mansion of the lord
Amon.”
“We’d need extra men, at least a company of spearmen, to guard them on the journey north,” Ahmose said, “and we can’t keep them here while we await the arrival of troops from some distant garrison. We’ve no supplies to spare, and our next shipment of grain won’t come until long after the harvest in Kemet. Without that, we’ve nothing to trade locally for the more perishable fruits and vegetables we’d need.”
Eyeing the patchwork of fields along the river, Amonked asked, “Could not the captives help with the harvest, thereby earning their keep?”
Nebwa barked out a laugh. “The farmers would subject them to slavery-or, more likely, let them starve.”
“What of Semna?” the inspector asked, untroubled by what came close to ridicule.
“It and its sister fortresses sit in a land devoid of life,”
Ahmose explained. “What food and supplies they don’t re ceive from Kemet, they must get by barter from traveling merchants.”
“We can’t take them with us on the caravan.” Bak said no more, the reasons too obvious to relate, too much like those given for Askut and Semna.
With much to think about and the choices limited,
Amonked turned his back on his advisers to pace up and down the walkway, head lowered, hands clasped behind him. Bak rubbed the bandage on his thigh, a poor substitute for scratching the scabbed-over and itchy wound. He knew what he would do, but the decision was not his to make.
Nebwa and Ahmose also remained mute, an ordeal if their faces told true.
Amonked soon rejoined the three officers. “I know men in the royal house who would order us to slay the tribes men.” Neither his face nor his voice betrayed what he thought of the idea. “They would say we fought a battle and won it fairly. We’ve earned the right to cut off their hands and count them.”
Bak had heard grizzled veterans tell tales of hundreds upon hundreds of hands submitted to some lofty general in expectation of reward: the gold of valor, a portion of enemy wealth, captives who would make suitable servants. All very well in a major conflict, with king facing king on the field of battle, but here?
“We’ve fought no war,” he said, “only a minor, local skirmish led by a man bent on theft. The taking of hands would be inappropriate, as would the death of all these men.” What had he said to Pawah while awaiting the en emy? “This is no local skirmish; men will die.” And they had. Many men on both sides.
Amonked flashed him a look of… relief? “Shall we set them free?”
Bak stifled a smile. “Other than slay them, sir, which would leave their women and children to walk the desert sands alone and fearful, many to die of starvation and want,
I know not what else we can do with them.”
“Turn them loose,” Nebwa said in his usual blunt man ner. “I see no need to wipe out whole families merely to boast that I won a small victory.”
Ahmose hastened to second the suggestion. “I can spare enough food to see them on their way and sufficient men to escort them into the desert.”
“So be it.” Amonked, seemingly unaware of their relief, leaned into the crenel and his eyes settled on a dozen or so men seated in the shade slightly apart from the rest. The fallen head of the enemy coalition and the surviving mem bers of his tribal unit. “What of Hor-pen-Deshret?”
“Now there’s a man whose hand I’d gladly take,” Nebwa growled, scowling at his longtime foe.
“He can’t be set free,” Ahmose stated. “He fled once into the desert, and here he is again. As certain as I am of the lord Re’s return tomorrow, I know he’d come another day.”
“I suggest you take him to Kemet,” Bak said. “His pres ence in the royal house should pacify our sovereign for our failure to enslave or slay the rest.” He had heard that Maat kare Hatshepsut enjoyed seeing powerful men kneeling low before her, their foreheads
on the floor. A tale he deemed unwise to repeat to her cousin.
Amonked’s eyes twinkled, as if he had read the thought.
“Give him an hour alone, time enough to weigh his guilt with no friends or allies to offer support, then bring him before me in Lieutenant Ahmose’s office.”
“Hor-pen-Deshret. Horus of the Desert.” Amonked sat stiff and straight on Ahmose’s low-backed chair, which had been made as comfortable as possible, thanks to several thick pillows the lieutenant’s wife had brought. As it had no arms, he rested one hand on a plump thigh and held his baton of office in the other. “Don’t you think the name a bit presumptuous?”
“To you, perhaps.” The captive chief tossed his head in a superior manner. “To you, a man who has no understand ing of the desert and those of us who thrive in its barren wastes.”
Rather than dropping to his knees as he should have, the tribesman stood tall and proud, unbowed by captivity, fac ing Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin as if standing before an equal. He had been allowed to bathe and don clean cloth ing. One of his two guards, who stood a few paces behind him, had given him-in an instant of good humor or sar casm-a brownish feather to replace the red one he had lost. His broken arm had been bound within the bark of a slender tree and bandaged to hold it close to his chest. It was a clean break, the garrison physician had said, and should heal straight and strong.
Nebwa snorted, drawing the prisoner’s eyes to him, Ah 270
Lauren Haney mose, and Bak, standing at Amonked’s right hand. With a cynical smile, the tribesman bowed his head to Bak, ac knowledging the man who had laid him low and at the same time making light of the feat.
“I mean to release all those men you drew to your side with vain promises of wealth and glory.” Amonked main tained a regal bearing, as if born a prince destined to sit upon the throne. “With you no longer among them, I doubt they’ll form another coalition of tribes.”
“Set me free and I’ll see that they don’t.”
Amonked raised an eyebrow. “Are you pleading for mercy, Hor-pen-Deshret?”
“Never!” The tribesman raised his chin high. “I’m offer ing myself as an intermediary between my people and yours.”
“You wish to serve as an envoy?” Amonked chuckled.
“Have you not faced the fact that you’re our prisoner?”
“I’m a true falcon of the desert. Captivity would not suit me.”
Amonked wiped every trace of emotion from his face and stared at the proud tribesman standing before him. Not until Hor-pen-Deshret’s haughty smile began to look forced did he speak. “I mean to take you to Waset to stand before our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut. If she chooses to spare your life… Well, she can be whimsical at times, so I’ve no way of predicting her decision.” Amonked stared again at the man standing before him, feigning contemplation.
“This much I can tell you: if she’s sufficiently impressed with your manly appearance and demeanor, she’ll not merely allow you to live, but you’ll be a pampered guest within the royal house.”
Hope flared in Hor-pen-Deshret’s face.
“Seeing your vast abundance of pride, she may even take you with her each day to the hall of appearances, showing you off as she would a favored pet.”
The two guards snickered.
Hor-pen-Deshret exploded, fury suffusing his face. With a growl of rage, he leaped toward Amonked. Bak lunged, shoving him aside. Nebwa grabbed his sound arm, jerked it high up behind him, and forced him to his knees. The guards came to life, hurrying forward to do their duty.
“I won’t be made to look the fool!” the tribesman shouted. “Take my life. Hang me from the prow of your greatest warship. Treat me as the warrior I am.”
“Our sovereign must be given something to show for the battle we fought,” Nebwa said.
Amonked leaned forward, the better to make his point.
“Do you wish her, in the depths of anger because I pre sumed to let you and all your men walk free, to send her armies into the desert to slay every man they come upon, take into captivity their women and children, and take their flocks to Kemet to be sacrificed to our gods?”
“You have that wretched sailor, Captain Minkheper, the man who slew Prince Baket-Amon. Will she not be content with him?” Through the defiance, an edge of sullenness crept into Hor-pen-Deshret’s voice.
“Minkheper must be taken to Ma’am, where he’ll stand before the viceroy. Baket-Amon’s widow must see him charged with her husband’s death and she must see him die for it. Only then will she willingly bend a knee to our sov ereign.”
“So I stand alone.”
“You’ve done enough harm, Hor-pen-Deshret. You must pay.”
“I’d rather die than play pet to your sovereign. To any woman.”
“Either you submit to her or you’ll be impaled, a long and agonizing death, I’ve been told.”
The tribal chief stared at Amonked, made speechless by the force of his words. Seeing no hint of forgiveness on the inspector’s face, no sign that he would relent, the tribes man’s eyes slid away and his shoulders slumped. Bak sor rowed at the once-brave warrior’s downfall, but he could not be allowed to rise again, to steal peace and tranquillity from the land of Wawat for many years to come.
“We’ll stay another day before we move on to Semna.”
Amonked stopped midway along the sloping rock-strewn path that linked the main gate and the river. “The very thought of treading the desert trail so soon is abhorrent.”
Bak and Nebwa, following in his wake, stopped with him. The trio looked across the narrow channel toward the west bank. Men and women toiled in the fields that had been trampled in the battle, salvaging what they could. An imals grazed on the wild grasses and brush along the irri gation ditches and on the higher reaches. A peaceful bucolic scene that made one forget that violence had reigned less than twenty-four hours earlier.
“If you’re to complete your task, you must travel on sooner or later,” Nebwa said.
“Sooner rather than later, I fear.” Amonked sighed. “I’ve told Nefret that she must remain here. She, her maid, and my dog. I see no reason to drag any of them upriver. I plan to leave behind most of the furniture and other objects we brought along. With no pavilion for shelter and no ameni ties to speak of, Nefret would suffer intensely, feeling in ordinately vulnerable and fearing every small sound in the night.”
“A wise decision, sir.” Bak glanced back at the high towered wall rising above them and the massive gate at the upper end of the path. “She seems to get on well with
Ahmose’s wife.”
They walked on, descending the path to the river and the skiff Ahmose had loaned them for the duration of their stay.
Amonked strode past the boat to stand at the water’s edge.
The smell of fresh-cut clover wafted across the gentle swells like a perfume of the gods. The inspector seemed not to know what to say, and his failure to speak stifled
Bak’s power of speech and Nebwa’s.
Finally he turned to face the two officers. “I’ve sent a complete report to Commandant Thuty, as you know, and another to the vizier. You saw the courier off yourself.”
Giving the pair before him a searching look, the inspector added carefully, “I see no immediate reason for you to re turn to Buhen-unless you choose to.”
Bak threw him a surprised look. “Are you suggesting we remain with the caravan, sir?”
“I’ve talked with Lieutenant Horhotep and he agrees that the inspection party is sorely in need of your expertise and good sense.”
Nebwa looked incredulous. “Horhotep agrees?”
Amonked’s mouth twitched, betraying a smile. “I could issue an order that you travel on with us, but I’d rather not force you against your will.”
“What of Captain Minkheper?” Bak asked. “We expected to escort him to Buhen.”
“He can remain here, under guard.”
“I suppose we could take him with us. His task remains undone.
He has yet to see the river between here and
Semna.”
A far-off honking drew Amonked’s eyes toward a for mation of wild geese, dark spots flying north high above the river. “He’s convinced, as I am, that the rapids below
Iken run for too long a distance and are too mighty to be breached. He’s preparing a report to explain the conclusion.
Our sovereign will have to be satisfied with that.”
Bak had heard many times of Maatkare Hatshepsut’s in sistence on having her way, whether or not the object or deed she desired was the best choice or even made sense.
He himself had been the victim of her wrath. He had to admire Amonked, who seemed untroubled by the thought of facing her with news she did not wish to hear.
His thoughts leaped back to the inspector’s suggestion that he and Nebwa remain with the caravan. As far as he was concerned the trip upriver would be no hardship. With
Imsiba in charge of the Medjays at Buhen, they were in good hands. The journey would give him an opportunity to visit garrisons he had never had a chance to see, and he could make good use of the additional time to prepare for his appearance with Minkheper before the viceroy. His friend, on the other hand, was a man with responsibilities.
He was second-in-command of Buhen, accountable for the well-being and training of the men in the garrison, and he was a devoted husband and father.
Nebwa must have guessed Bak’s thoughts, for his eyes began to twinkle and he assumed a pose of exaggerated severity. “I haven’t taken a look at the fortresses south of here for over two years. It’s about time I did.”
“So you see,” Bak said, “you’ll remain at Askut while we’re gone. We’ll stop by on our way north to pick you up. You, Hor-pen-Deshret, and Nefret.”
Minkheper formed a crooked smile, one of forced humor.
“I’d hoped to see the Belly of Stones in its entirety. Did you have to snare me before we reached Semna?”
Bak occupied a campstool beside the portable bed on which the captain sat. The room, given fresh air and light by two small, high windows, was located on the second floor of the commander’s residence. Of a good size and opening onto a central courtyard, built to serve as a room for lofty guests in a fortress seldom visited by anyone of high status, it was used for storage by Ahmose’s wife. She had provided the bed to acknowledge Minkheper’s rank but at his urging, had shoved woven reed chests, tall wine jars and beer vats, and baskets filled with imperishable food stuffs against the wall. The smell of spices mingled with onions and wine and grain, tickling Bak’s nose.