by Lauren Haney
As Bak cleared the last of the houses, he studied the low rock shelf containing the old cemetery, searching for Mery and his friends. Other than three yellow dogs probing the ruined structures, not a creature stirred. Too early for the boys, he guessed. Turning left, he followed a sandy lane that ran along the unbroken outer face of the close-packed block of houses. At the far end, where the path struck off across the sand, he passed the building where Captain Roy’s crew was being held. He thought of stopping, but decided against it. The longer the men lingered, thinking themselves forgotten, the more eager they would be to open their hearts and wag their tongues.
Beyond the stretch of sand lay the animal paddocks.
Marking his destination by a thin yellowish cloud of dust rising from the far corner, Bak followed a path between thigh-high mudbrick walls enclosing more animals than he had ever before seen confined at Buhen. Cattle, goats, sheep, and donkeys, with men toiling among them, cleaning away manure, spreading fresh hay, and filling troughs with grain and water.
Most of the creatures were placid: eating, drinking, watching the world around them, ears twitching, tails swishing away the flies. A few younger animals cantered around the limited space, kicking up dust, squealing. Bak’s nose tickled, teased by the heavy smell of hay and grain, the rank odor of manure.
He found Hapuseneb standing outside a donkey paddock.
The wealthy trader, attired as usual in fine jewelry and linen, looked completely at ease in this place of dust, the stench of animals, and the sweat of lesser men. He was talking across the wall to a pot-bellied youth nursing a charcoal fire contained within a ring of stones. Both watched another man trying to catch a young and frisky gray donkey. Each time he drew close and threw his rope, the creature ducked its head and darted away. The other animals in the enclosure were fearful, trotting this way and that, heads up, eyes wild.
The man was red-faced and angry, too conscious of his master’s presence, Bak suspected.
Hapuseneb spotted the approaching officer and smiled.
“Lieutenant Bak! You’ve come at last!”
Bak paused, startled, then realized the inevitable had happened. “Someone warned you of my mission, I see.”
“Nebamon, yes. And Userhet. They said…”
Racing hooves pounded the earth, distracting the trader.
The man in the paddock threw his rope and the noose settled around the gray donkey’s neck. Trembling, tossing its head, blowing, it stood stiff-legged, refusing to budge. An older man ran up and the two together threw the creature onto its side and snugged a rope around its flailing limbs. The youth withdrew a branding iron from the glowing coals and raced to the fettered animal. A sizzle, the stench of burning hair and flesh, a terrified bray. The ropes were jerked free. The donkey struggled to its feet and shot into the herd, losing itself among its fellows.
Hapuseneb watched the man with the rope trudge back to the herd in search of another victim. “I dislike seeing my ships and caravans lay idle-it’s not good business-but this enforced rest does have one advantage: I’ve plenty of time to have the animals branded and doctored and to have repairs made to my sailing vessels.”
He operated three ships above Semna and two cargo vessels that plied the waters between Buhen and Abu. His caravans came and went much of the time, carrying trade goods around the Belly of Stones, bridging the troubled waters between Semna and Buhen. A man of wealth, one who toiled night and day to amass ever more.
A man easy to take as a friend, Bak thought, but one who would no doubt make a fearsome enemy. “Two nights ago, I stayed in Kor, and there I saw others taking a like advantage.”
Hapuseneb tore his attention from the paddock, frowned.
“You’re responsible for the delay, I’ve been told.”
“Two men have been slain,” Bak pointed out, “one caught with an elephant tusk on his ship. And you’ve surely heard of the contraband we found on Captain Roy’s vessel.”
Hapuseneb barked a laugh. “If that ship carried half what the rumors claim, it would’ve sunk from the weight of its cargo.”
Bak sensed beneath the sarcasm the irritation of a man with a grain of sand under his kilt. “You sound bitter, Hapuseneb. That’s not like you.”
“I don’t like smugglers.” The trader’s mouth tightened. “I have to pay tolls, oft times more in one year than the entire worth of goods some men ship to Kemet throughout that same year. Much of my merchandise is hard won, with men losing their lives carrying it through lands wild and dangerous and down a river that’s equally treacherous. If I must pay passage through this land of Wawat, giving up to our sovereign far more than I think fair, I expect everyone else to do the same.”
Bak eyed the trader with interest. He was reputed to be a careful man with his wealth, and so he sounded. How far would he go to acquire more? “Has anyone ever approached you, asking you to transport illicit cargo?”
“Those who toil for me are often approached.” Hapuse-136 / Lauren Haney neb’s eyes darted toward Bak and he laughed. “Don’t worry. I punish all who bow to temptation, the number of lashes in direct proportion to the value of the smuggled items.”
Bak whistled. “A strong reaction.”
“A strong deterrent.”
Bak did not trust the use of the cudgel to get the truth from men being questioned. Would the whip be equally unreliable in eliminating temptation? “Did you know Roy?”
“Not well. He kept to himself usually, and his friends weren’t mine.” Hapuseneb pulled a square of cloth from his belt and wiped the dust from his face and neck. “Other than his crew and now and again another ship’s master, I seldom saw him with other men.”
Bak pressed up against the wall, getting out of the way of a dozen long-horned cattle driven by a dark-skinned boy of eight or so years. “Did you ever see Roy with Intef, the hunter?”
“The man found slain in the desert?” Hapuseneb shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’d not have recognized him without game-laden donkeys trotting along behind him.”
“I know you were acquainted with Mahu,” Bak said in a wry voice.
“We weren’t the best of friends, but I’ve known him for years, yes.” Tucking the cloth into his belt, Hapuseneb gave Bak a long, speculative look. “You claim, Nebamon told me-or was it Userhet? — that someone approached Mahu, asking him to smuggle contraband, the night we played knucklebones at Nofery’s place of business.”
“So I’ve been told.” Bak kept his voice level, unrufflea, though the knowledge that his suspects were comparing notes set his teeth on edge.
“He also said you suspect one of us, one of the five who played that night. I’m convinced you err. Neither place nor people nor circumstances support the charge.”
Bak chose not to debate the issue. “Do you remember any talk of smuggling that night? Any secretive behavior?”
Hapuseneb turned to face the paddock, where a black donkey had spread its legs wide and bared its teeth, defying every attempt to throw it. “Since I spoke with Userhet-or maybe Nebamon-I’ve had plenty of time to think on that evening. I recall nothing of note, I assure you.” He gave Bak a sharp glance. “Perhaps because nothing happened. What kind of man would approach another in a crowded place of business like Nofery’s? Why appproach a man as honest as Mahu? The frontier is overrun by men far more willing than he to defy our sovereign’s demands.”
“Why hide an elephant tusk aboard Mahu’s ship at a time when all vessels in Buhen and Kor are being searched?”
Hapuseneb threw back his head and laughed. “I see you’re ahead of me, Lieutenant.”
Am I? Bak wondered. “Mahu’s life was taken while he was in my care. I’ll not rest until I lay hands on the man who slew him.”
The words had come unbidden, and once uttered could not be taken back. Bak was torn between satisfaction and regret. With his suspects comparing notes, the threat, empty as it was, would soon reach the ears of the slayer. If he believed Bak proficient as a tracker
of men, he might feel himself forced to act. A dangerous prospect since he knew the name of his adversary, while Bak knew nothing of the man he sought.
“I’ve always thought Hapuseneb likable-and clever.” The midday sun beat down on the quay, heating the stones beneath Bak’s sandaled feet. A light breeze dried the thin film of sweat on his brow. “He certainly proved me right. I felt the whole time we talked that he’d already guessed my next question, had the answer ready, and was thinking of the one beyond.”
Imsiba’s eyes traveled the length of a line of men carrying bundled hides down the gangplank from Ramose’s ship and along the quay to the fortress. “With so many vessels plying the waters both above and below the Belly of Stones, he’d have more opportunity than most to smuggle contraband.”
“Would a man with a fleet of his own place a tusk on another man’s ship, where he’d have no control over its fate?”
“It would make no sense,” Imsiba agreed.
Bak eyed Ramose’s ship, noting its simple, sturdy lines; the rich, dark wood of its hull; the well-tended fittings and stays; the bright new paint of the forecastle and the faded deckhouse not yet repainted. His gaze settled on the prow, where fresh, pale wood scarred the darker, weathered wood between the waterline and the rail. Other than a few of the outermost lines and curves, little remained of the faded symbols that had announced the name of the vessel-as if the name itself had been targeted for destruction.
“Is that patch fresh? I don’t remember seeing it.”
“You must always have stood on the wrong side of the ship.” Imsiba stared at the scar, thinking back. “I noticed it several days ago, before Ramose first sailed from Buhen, bound for Abu.”
The burly Medjay Psuro followed the last of the men bearing the hides. “That’s about it, sir. Nothing left now but the ingots belowdecks. They’ll take much of the afternoon, and tomorrow we’ll reload Captain Ramose’s original cargo.”
“No need to push the men too hard,” Bak said. “The ship isn’t going anywhere.”
“Patience is running thin among the fishermen, sir.” Psuro gave his superiors a crooked grin. “I boarded a boat this morning and feared for a while I’d be thrown overboard.”
“I’m not surprised,” Imsiba said. “To be searched day in and day out would try the most patient of men.”
“Go see old Meru,” Bak told them. “He’ll expect favors without number, but if he feels moved to do so, he can silence the younger men’s grumbling.”
As the pair walked away, Bak hastened up the gangplank to Ramose, who stood at the bow of his ship, watching a half dozen members of the crew wash down the empty deck.
Bak thanked the captain for taking the time and trouble to haul Roy’s crew and cargo back to Buhen, relayed an invitation from Commandant Thuty to dine that evening, and reminded him that he could not yet set sail.
“Why hold me?” Ramose demanded. “My ship was searched from stem to stern before we set sail for Abu. Your men saw my cargo unloaded three days ago, checking each and every object against the manifest, and tomorrow they’ll see it reloaded.”
“We’ll not hold you forever.” Let Thuty sooth his ruffled feathers with a good meal and plenty of beer, Bak thought.
“The bow of your ship’s been repaired, I see. What happened?”
“We ran aground, hit a projecting rock.”
Bak detected an edge to the captain’s voice, noted the angry bulge of his jaw. He had struck a tender spot.
Wounded pride perhaps. Or something else?
“You played knucklebones with Mahu…” He went on, repeating the tale Sitamon had told.
“I didn’t hear any talk of smuggling or anything else that might’ve led to Mahu’s murder.” Ramose scratched his substantial belly, scowled. “You know how it goes around here.
Rumors outnumber truths ten to one. We’ve nothing better to do, just the same dreary routine day after day, so we take what we hear and embellish it. And when a man dies as Mahu did, all who retell the tale adorn the truth even more.”
Considering the events of the last few days, dreary routine held a certain appeal for Bak. “You saw no one speak in confidence to Mahu?”
“Absolutely not.” Ramose snorted. “I drank more beer than was good for me, I must admit, but I’m not a man to miss what’s patently meant to be a secret. Two men whispering together will draw my attention like a lotus draws bees.”
Until a besotted blindness sets in, Bak thought. “Has anyone ever approached you, suggesting you carry contraband?”
Ramose’s mouth tightened; an angry fire burned in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, glanced at the men on hands and knees at the far end of the deck, and shook his head in the negative.
“Someone has, I see,” Bak prompted.
Ramose hesitated a long time. When at last he spoke, he spat out the words as if they fouled his tongue. “A month ago it was. A half-naked desert tribesman came to me on the quay at Kor. He slithered up like a snake, and his whisper was the hiss of a viper. He dangled before me a promise of great wealth and suggested I carry illicit cargo. Do you know what I did?”
Bak shook his head, reluctant to speak lest he dam the flow.
“I threw him in the river! That’s what!” Ramose took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and snarled, “I’ve not seen him since.”
Bak pictured the repaired bow and guessed what must have happened. “After his swim, he came back in secret, didn’t he? He smashed a hole in your ship and destroyed its name, letting you know he’d sink it if you spoke out of turn.”
Ramose ground his teeth together and glared. “No! No one threatened me!”
The man would not speak up, Bak could see. He had too much to lose: vessel, crew, cargo. “Were you surprised to learn of the contraband we found on Captain Roy’s ship?”
Ramose visibly relaxed, on safer ground now. “I can’t, in all honesty, say I was. I’ve sailed these waters with Roy for years and I’ve never known him to offend the lady Maat. But men whisper. You know how it is. ‘Where was his ship moored during the night?’ ‘He left Buhen ahead of me, yet I reached Ma’am first.’ That kind of thing.”
Bak bent to brush an ant off his foot. “You noticed nothing wrong with his cargo from one mooring to the next?”
“How would I have known what he should or shouldn’t be carrying? It wasn’t up to me to walk the length of his deck, manifest in hand.”
Bak’s smile held not a shred of humor. He felt like a man casting a line in a dozen different pools, with no clue as to which might contain a fish-if any. “You must’ve heard by this time that we found another man dead while you were away.”
“Intef, the hunter.” Ramose scowled at the men scrubbing the deck. “A simple man, he was, but likable.”
“You knew him?” Bak asked, surprised.
“I sometimes brought him on board for the journey from Kor to Buhen. It’s not a long march, but when a man and his donkeys are weary, it seems so. He, in turn, would give me a hare or two.” Ramose gave a bleak smile. “I’ll miss him.”
The simplicity of the words jarred Bak, made him feel overly suspicious, more distrusting than he should be of his fellow man. “Did he ever speak of his travels in the desert?”
“He seldom spoke of anything, preferring instead to hear us talk of our voyages.” Ramose stared at his hands, his face clouded with sorrow. “He grew to manhood in that oasis across the river and he longed to see more, to live a seaman’s life. I offered him a berth more than once, but he had a family, he told me, a farm he couldn’t leave for long.” He turned away, his voice grew rough. “I wish I’d been more persistent, convinced him to sail with us to Abu. At least once.”
“Lieutenant Kay can use a bow,” Hori said, “but from what his sergeant told me, he has no special skill with the weapon.”
The youthful scribe lifted a heavy basket, which bristled with papyrus rolls projecting from the mouths of the jars he had stowed inside, and cradled it in his arms. A j
ar filled with the most recent dispatches remained on the bench, but he had carried the rest of the clutter to an alcove behind the entry hall.
“As for the others,” he went on, “so far I’ve found nothing in their personal records to single any of them out. To a man, they learned to protect themselves as youths, but if one grew especially proficient with the bow, no note was ever made.
And I’ve found no one who recalls ever seeing them use the weapon.”
142 / Lauren Haney
“Another dead end.” Bak’s voice was flat, disgusted.
“You learned nothing new from Captain Ramose, sir?”
“Someone approached him about a month ago, asking him to carry contraband, and he threw the man into the river. Now the bow of his ship is patched.” Bak gave a cynical snort. “He ran aground, he claims.”
A twinkle lit Hori’s eyes. “Would it help, do you think, if I stopped to chat now and again with the men in his crew?”
“They know who you are, and Ramose has no doubt warned them to be silent, but…” Bak thought of the youth’s easy manner and how persuasive he could be. “We’ve nothing to lose.”
“No, sir,” Hori grinned.
Bak crossed to a bow, quiver, and several arrows leaning in a corner, gathered them up, and laid them on top of the scribe’s burden. “Once you’ve relieved yourself of your load, take these weapons to the armory. See if they have any distinguishing features. I can see none, but I’m not an expert.”
Ushering the youth out the door, he added, “Also, find out how easy it is to lay hands on bow, quiver, and arrows. Too easy, I suspect.”
“Yes, sir.”
The absence of noise drew Bak’s eyes to the men on duty.
The knucklebones lay on the floor between them, forgotten, while one man unhooked a simple bronze chain from around his neck, removed a green faience amulet of the eye of Horus, and handed it to the other man. The recipient, Bak guessed, had won a bet, probably related to the length of time Hori would take to clear out the office. As the scribe walked past them and through a rear door, one man winked at the other, verifying the guess.