by Lauren Haney
“Ah, look who’s come.” Iry laughed, pleased. “I knew he wouldn’t disappoint us.”
Bak lunged toward the mat, praying the newcomer was one of his suspects. Through a slit, he saw Lieutenant Mery striding toward the two women. Bak breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, although he had to admit the watch officer did not look like a man intent on saving his skin. His smile was broad and open. He was spotlessly clean, freshly shaven. His jet-black hair was shiny and neat, and his lithe body glistened with the oil he had used after bathing. He carried his baton of office and wore a bronze dagger on his hip, its wooden handle polished to a high sheen.
Bak studied the officer, looking for signs of the struggle in Heby’s dwelling. Mery’s knee was bruised, his right hand abraded. The ruddy stain of sandburn on face and limbs betrayed his exposure to the storm, his body protected by a cloak. The injuries were minor but promising. Other than the burns and an ugly bruise on his lower back, Bak himself had come away unmarked.
Mery glanced at Ruru, sprawled in front of the wall, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep. Dismissing the Medjay with a grin, he entered the pavilion. Ruru’s eyes flickered open, snapped shut; his fingers inched toward his spear.
Greeting Iry, Mery showed not only the respect due a mature woman of her station but also a genuine affection. From her fond smile and the way she patted the young officer’s arm, Bak could tell the feeling was mutual. Mery took Azzia’s hands and, holding them far longer than necessary, offered his sympathy and loyalty. Iry looked on with so obvious a satisfaction Bak was certain she would have tried to make a match if Azzia had not been so recently widowed. The thought rankled.
The sun dipped behind the fortress wall, enveloping the courtyard in shadow. Iry embraced Azzia, and the two women bade a sorrowful good-bye. As soon as the older woman departed, Mery reached out to Azzia as if to clasp her hands-or more. She turned away. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she suggested he take a stool.
Bak, eager to get on with his plan, hastened to a deep reed chest filled with neatly folded bed linen. Sliding his hand inside, he withdrew the items he had hidden there earlier in the day: a papyrus scroll and a linen-wrapped object the size of the thin gold ingot Azzia had given him. Each was bound with cord, its knot secured with a flat lump of dried clay stamped with Nakht’s seal. The pretense of a search was not necessary, he rationalized. All he had to do was display the objects and wait for developments.
He returned to the door and raised his hand to sweep the mat aside, but a quick peek outside changed his mind. Azzia, seated on a stool facing her guest, was pouring wine into a drinking bowl while Mery watched her with the adoring look of a lovesick puppy. Was he, after all, nothing more than an admirer, with no knowledge of stolen gold? Smothering his impatience, Bak sat down, laid the objects in his lap, and pressed his forehead to the mat.
“I yearned to come to you before today, as you must know,” Mery said, accepting the bowl, “but I could think of no way to break the wall of solitude Officer Bak raised around you.”
“The days were long and empty, yes.” A sad, rather ironic smile touched her lips. “But even loneliness can have some value. With so much time to myself, I’ve learned to accept my fate as a woman alone.”
Mery reached toward her as if to caress her cheek. She recoiled, a tiny frown touching her face, and she swung away to lift a shallow bowl of deep purple grapes from a nearby stool.
He flushed, withdrew his hand.
She looked directly into his eyes. “A woman who must go on by herself, with no man to walk beside her or share her burdens.”
Bak was confused. Was she telling a confederate their relationship was over? Or was she reminding a would-be suitor that her widowhood had just begun? As far as he could tell, she had not warned Mery they had an eavesdropper.
The watch officer’s flush deepened. “Your sorrow at what has passed is great, I know, but one day…”
“I’ll wipe this nightmare from my memory and go on as if nothing had happened?” Her voice cracked on the last few words. Visibly controlling herself, she pulled a low, baked-clay table close to Mery’s thigh and sat the bowl on it. “My husband has been torn from my arms. In one week, two at the most, I must stand before the viceroy in place of the man who took his life. Judged innocent or guilty, I’ll never forget. How can I?”
Bak was so distressed by the pain he heard that he almost missed the anger boiling close below the surface.
“You must forget!”
“My husband was life itself to me and now he’s gone.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll not forget. Nor will I ever forgive the man responsible.”
Her face, her words were filled with loathing. Bak had no doubt she spoke from deep within her heart. She had not taken Nakht’s life. He was relieved, but also troubled. She might be guilty by association.
Mery’s eyes slipped away from hers; he shifted uncomfortably on his stool. Exactly as a disheartened suitor would behave, Bak thought, or a man with a guilty conscience.
With his eyes locked on his drinking bowl, Mery asked, “When you go before the viceroy, what will you tell him?”
An odd question, Bak thought, for a man blinded by love. He shifted closer to the mat, torn between his wish to know the truth and his dread that Azzia would incriminate herself.
“What can she say?” a male voice demanded.
Mery jumped, startled. Azzia looked toward the stairwell and smiled a warm, relieved welcome at Harmose, the archer. Cursing the untimely interruption, Bak stared hard at the newcomer, who came striding across the courtyard, his powerful muscles accented by the deepening shadow, his entire being bristling with indignation. Had he barged in so abruptly because he was the guilty man instead of Mery?
Like the watch lieutenant, Harmose was neat, clean, and freshly shaven. Much of his body had been chafed by blowing sand, he walked with the heavy step of weariness, and his torso and limbs wore the fresh abrasions and bruises of a long day on the practice field. If he had been Bak’s opponent in Heby’s house, fresh marks of battle covered the old.
He knelt before Azzia to take her hands. “For you to be dragged off to Ma’am and humiliated…it’s…it’s indecent!” He released her and flung himself onto a stool. “Say the word and I’ll carry you away tonight.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I fear the desert more than the viceroy, my brother.”
Mery glared at the archer, resentful of the mild endearment-or, more likely, the offer.
“They say there are large and fertile oases many days’ journey to the south,” Harmose said. “The land is so rich it repays a man tenfold for the effort it takes to plant the fields. You’ve seen for yourself the fine cattle the people of Kush bring as tribute from far upriver.”
Azzia raised her hand to silence the dream. Or was it a dream? Bak wondered. Could Harmose seriously be thinking of fleeing with Azzia? And the gold?
“What of the Belly of Stones and the garrisons along its length?” Mery scoffed. “The soldiers who man them would stop your flight within hours, and Azzia’s guilt would be taken as fact.”
“I’m going to Ma’am,” Azzia said in a firm voice. “I must convince the viceroy I’m innocent. Only then can I journey to Mennufer with my husband and see him placed in his tomb with the honor and dignity he earned through his life.”
“How will you convince him?” Harmose asked irritably. “By naming the guilty man?”
“All I can do is tell the truth.”
Neither Mery nor Harmose looked happy with her answer. Bak did not know what to think. Her simple, straightforward statement could have been a subtle threat. On the other hand, if she knew nothing of the stolen gold, she might truly believe veracity would set her free. A faith that might well be misplaced.
With the thought goading him on, Bak decided to show himself-and the package and scroll. The time had come to bait his trap. At the same time, he could learn the whereabouts of Mery and Harmose during the storm. If either was in the company of
others, he could be eliminated as a suspect.
He slipped out a side door and followed the servant girl along the passage connecting the kitchen to the courtyard. She carried a delicate long-necked wine jar. The octopus-and-vine design told him the vessel had been imported from the faraway island kingdom of Keftiu.
He paused at the exit and eyed the two men with Azzia. Neither Mery nor Harmose looked capable of offending the gods in any way. The watch officer appeared too ineffectual, the archer too open. Nebwa he would have thought a more likely man to steal and slay without hesitation-or Paser. Yet both men had failed to come. He doubted they would at so late an hour. Already the sky had turned from blue to pale gold, heralding the sun’s disappearance beyond the horizon.
“I know well the kind of justice meted out in the land of my birth,” Azzia said. “All my family was destroyed at the whim of a king. At least here, with the lady Maat balancing the scales of justice, I can be sure the viceroy will hear me out and judge me fairly.”
As the servant walked into the courtyard, Azzia spotted Bak at the door. Her eyes darted to the objects in his hand. Surprise, followed an instant later by bewilderment, registered on her face. She covered her reaction with a quick smile at the girl.
“Our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, can be as whimsical as the king of Hatti,” Harmose said. “As for the viceroy…” His expression darkened and he shook his head to show how hopeless he thought her situation. “He’ll hear none but Officer Bak, who’ll stand beside you, describing the blood he saw on your hands. At best, he’ll offer no word in your favor. At worst…”
Azzia flashed him a warning glance.
He swiveled on his stool, saw Bak, and went on, “…He’ll twist his words to hide his own ineptness.”
Glimpsing Azzia’s distraught face, Bak gave the archer his best smile and dropped onto the nearest stool. Harmose glowered. Mery nodded an unenthusiastic greeting. If either noticed the objects Bak carried, or cared about them, they gave no hint. He pulled the baked-clay table close, shifted the bowl of grapes, and laid the scroll and package beside it. Azzia watched his performance, looking more mystified than ever. She caught his eye, probing for an answer to her unspoken question.
Mery glanced at the scrolls, at Azzia, at Bak. His mouth tightened; the small scar at the corner of his lip turned fiery.
Harmose eyed the objects with contempt. “I heard you planned to search this house. Was this the second time? The third? Can you think of no better way to spend your days?”
The serving girl, pouring wine into drinking bowls for him and Bak, smirked her agreement.
“What would you suggest I do?” Bak asked.
“The rumors fly that one of your Medjays took the commandant’s life and that of the goldsmith. Are you so blind you can’t see the fear and hatred growing within this city?”
“I’m neither blind nor deaf. I know very well the situation.”
“You do nothing to stop it! While your men patrol the streets of this city, risking an attack around every corner, you waste your hours here, allowing the slayer to walk free while you treat mistress Azzia as a common criminal.”
Bak let a touch of insolence creep into his voice. “Do you, a man who shares my Medjays’ blood, believe one of them would slay for no good reason?”
Harmose’s expression was cool, disdainful. “I believe an officer should stand beside his men in the heat of battle, not run away to a safe haven like Ma’am when he sees the enemy approaching from all sides.”
Bak contained his resentment. The words echoed his own thoughts. “I’ve no choice in the matter, as you well know. The chief steward, Tetynefer, has given the order.”
“No man or woman can change his mind,” Mery said bitterly. “I’ve tried.”
The archer’s eyes flashed anger. “How can you, a man who looks at Azzia with sheep’s eyes, speak up for this…this cur who spits dirt on her good name?”
“Enough, Harmose!” Azzia raised her bowl, smiled. “This wine is the finest I have. Will you allow harsh words to turn it sour?”
Harmose was too angry to heed her plea. “Has Bak told you he believes you have a secret lover and you took your husband’s life to gain your freedom?”
Mery gasped. Azzia stared at Bak, appalled.
Bak wanted to throttle the archer. “You exaggerate. I merely asked the question.”
“Since all who know you believe you’d never look at another man…” Harmose’s eyes shifted from Azzia to Bak. “…His own men must shoulder the blame.”
A new, deeper voice said, “No man of Kemet would take the life of Commandant Nakht. Who does that leave but a Medjay?”
Bak recognized the voice and the accusation before he glanced toward the stairwell. Lieutenant Nebwa was leaning on the doorjamb, his coarse features leaving no doubt as to the strength of his conviction. A second figure, Lieutenant Paser, stood in the shadows behind him. Bak was so surprised at seeing them both that his exasperation at Nebwa’s unfounded charge fled. He had expected the man who had taken the gold to come late in the day, but to have all his suspects here at one time was incredible.
Harmose’s curse was long and vehement. Mery muttered beneath his breath. Azzia closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her fingertips. She took a deep breath, lowered her hand, and smiled at the newcomers. Bak noticed in the fading light how drawn her face was, how tired she looked.
Nebwa strolled to the pavilion, indifferent to the furor he had raised. His hair was rumpled, his kilt askew, his sandals worn and dusty. Of far more interest to Bak were his swollen blackening eye, and arms and torso dappled with livid scratches and grayish bruises. All looked fresh in the uncertain light. Nebwa had probably spent the day training his spearmen in the art of hand-to-hand combat, a necessary task for a man who led troops on skirmishes outside the fortress, but would an experienced officer allow his men to punish him so badly?
Bak shifted his attention to Paser, trailing a pace or two behind, eyeing with distaste his companion’s back. The caravan officer was as clean and tidy as Mery and Harmose-and displayed as many signs of bodily abuse. His legs and arms were rough and chapped. He wore a linen bandage on his right hand and wrist. The arm and shoulder were badly bruised.
Sipping the heady wine in his drinking bowl, Bak eyed the four men. He felt certain that each of them, especially the one he had fought in Heby’s dwelling, had a fine tale to tell about the way he had come by his injuries.
Nebwa, looking like an unkempt bull, knelt before Azzia and took her hands. She accepted his rather clumsy offer of sympathy with her customary grace and charm. Bak could detect no special feeling between them. Paser stood while greeting her and gave her the careful smile a palace courtier might give a woman in Maatkare Hatshepsut’s retinue when unsure of her status. His words were proper, correct. Her response was as gracious as before but a shade cooler, a touch more distant. Bak wondered if they had always disliked each other or if Nakht’s death had torn asunder a close alliance.
The stool beside Bak was unoccupied, so Nebwa sat there. Watching Paser’s greeting, he raised his chin to look down his nose and made a prissy face meant as a parody of a courtier in the royal house. Mery smiled, his irritation no match for such childish humor. Bak concealed his own smile with an effort. When Paser swung around to find a place to sit, Nebwa’s face wore the innocence of a child. Neither man appeared to notice the scroll and package.
Nebwa’s glance slid past the still-fuming Harmose and came to rest on the bandages around Bak’s arm and waist. “The storm found you outside, I see.”
“I was caught in the wind, yes, but these…” Bak touched the bandages. “Oil spilled from a lamp and I was burned.” He eyed the officer’s black eye. “I see you were injured, too.”
“As were half the men in Buhen,” Paser said, reaching out with his left, uninjured hand to take a drinking bowl from the servant girl. She poured his wine and moved on to Nebwa.
Azzia said to Mery, “Iry told us a sentry at
op the outer wall was blown into a gate tower and fell at least halfway to the ground. Is it true his leg is broken?”
“His leg, an arm, and some ribs.” Worry darkened the watch officer’s face. “The physician bound the bones straight and offered the necessary spells. With luck he’ll walk again.”
“With luck he’ll live, you mean,” Nebwa muttered.
“Were you on the wall when it happened?” Bak asked Mery. Nebwa’s whereabouts remained a mystery, but the watch lieutenant’s location was no less important.
“I tripped and fell not long after the wind stiffened, so I went to my quarters.” Mery’s eyes darted toward Azzia, fell away. He stared shamefaced into his drinking bowl. “I thought, since my men have been through many storms, they needed no guiding hand to keep them safe. I judged them wrong, it seems.”
Bak cautioned himself not to leap to any conclusions. Mery had been alone, yes, but what of the other three?
“Soldiers are soldiers,” Nebwa said. “Good, brave men, but they need the same attention and care you’d give a child.”
The servant girl slipped among them with a plate of sweet cakes. Bak could not resist their yeasty aroma though he had eaten well while imprisoned in Nakht’s bedchamber. As she moved on around the circle, he eyed Harmose. The archer’s scowl was directed at Nebwa, whose blanket accusation of the Medjays, had drawn his anger away from Bak.
Paser accepted a cake and took a bite from it. He favored the right arm, Bak noted, but the injury was not so serious that it crippled him.
“How did you happen to be caught in the storm?” he asked.
“I set out to inspect a new herd of donkeys. That old thief Dedu delivered them yesterday morning and I thought to use them in the next caravan I lead into the desert. I didn’t want to learn the morning we leave that half were too old or too infirm to make the journey.”
“Old and infirm!” Nebwa guffawed. “If the drovers you chose for the journey hadn’t slipped off for home as soon as the wind came up, they’d have set you straight in a hurry.” He threw a sly grin at Azzia. “Those animals are so young and frisky one of them butted him and knocked him into a wall. That’s the truth of the matter.”