by Lauren Haney
“If we find the tomb we seek, we may need them.”
“We’ll find an open entryway, a few steps down, and a room or two, that’s all.”
“I spent my youth in Waset,” Bak reminded him. “The tombs there are deep, the burial chambers not easy to reach.
What if the one Intef found is such a place, a house of eternity prepared by a man who longed for his home in faroff Kemet?”
“How many tombs have we seen over the past few days, my friend? Each and every one was shallow, dug within a hill or ridge, and none had secret chambers deep beneath them.”
“Have I come at a bad time?”
Sitamon stood at the door, wide-eyed and timid, looking as if she might at any instant turn around and flee. “Are you too busy to…?”
“Not at all!” Imsiba leaped to his feet, rushed to the portal to usher her inside, and offered her his stool.
Bak stood up, preparing to leave yet not sure he should go. He could not imagine what had brought her at such an early hour-or why she had come to the guardhouse, for that matter. Unless she had a purpose other than her friendship with Imsiba. Mahu’s death perhaps?
She raised a hand, palm forward, signaling they should remain where they were. “I can’t stay. I’ve left my son in the commandant’s palace, where he’s playing with Tiya’s children, and I must go next to the market.”
“Is something wrong?” Imsiba asked, his voice and manner solicitous.
“No, I…” She threw a glance at Bak that begged him to leave and gave Imsiba an uncertain smile. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Bak slipped around her and out the door, giving the pair a chance to talk. He joined the men on duty in the entry hall, took a crusty roll from a basket, and tore it apart. The dates inside were rich and succulent, the bread sweet and firm.
While he nibbled, he listened unashamed to Imsiba and Sitamon, his curiosity piqued by concern for his friend.
“You must tell me what’s wrong,” Imsiba said.
“Nothing. It’s just that…” She hesitated, wrung her hands.
“Well, I thought…”
“What?” Imsiba took her hands in his, stilling them, and smiled. “You thought what?”
“Userhet wishes to take me as his wife,” she blurted. “I…I haven’t given him an answer. I thought to wait a while until…Oh, I shouldn’t have come!” She jerked her hands free and swung around, racing out of Bak’s office and through the street door, so blinded by emotion she bumped into a soldier on his way in, sending him spinning.
“She loves you, I tell you. Do you think she’d have come so early in the day if she didn’t?”
Imsiba sat on the bench at the back of the room, arms crossed over his breast, his expression stony. “She’s a good, kind woman. She saw that I cared for her, and she wished to break the news herself, before I could hear it from someone else.”
Bak wanted to shake his friend. He hated seeing him so unhappy, so quick to give up. “She wants you to step in, to stand up and be counted as a suitor.”
“I’m a sergeant in the Medjay police, my friend, one who owns nothing but the clothing I wear and the weapons I carry. Now, because of Mahu’s death, she’s the mistress of a grand cargo ship, a woman of wealth and status.”
“Barely more than a week ago, she was a lonely widow with a child, a woman in need of a home with her brother.”
Imsiba closed his ears to reason. “Userhet has much to offer, while I have nothing. He can read and write and he knows the ways of ships and trading. He can see advantage when it arises and make opportunities for further advantage.
I know nothing but what I do-I’d not be able to write my name if you hadn’t taught me-nor would I enjoy a change.”
“Sir!” Hori stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other, puzzled by their intensity. He carried a heavy coil of rope on his shoulder.
Bak tore his thoughts from Imsiba’s plight, formed a smile.
“Your mission was successful, I see. What did Ramose have to say?”
“He heard me out and handed over the rope without argument, but…” The boy’s voice tailed off, he frowned. “His thoughts were elsewhere, sir. I’m not sure he took in all I had to say.”
“How could he not?” Imsiba demanded. “He’s surely heard the rumors that Nebwa’s men have gone out in search of Wensu. Was he not happy to be rid of the one he fears?”
“He was, yes.” Hori crossed the room to the lower end of the coffin. He bent over, letting the rope slide off his shoulder and the coils settle with a whisper around the projecting feet.
“But Commandant Thuty had newly come and gone, and Captain Ramose was too elated by his visit to give the Kushite more than a passing thought.”
Bak eyed the wooden toes projecting above the rope. The coffin was becoming altogether too familiar an object. It had to go-and soon. “Make your point, Hori. You’ve three more men to see.”
Hori’s cheeks flamed. “The commandant visited the captain specifically to invite him to his party for the vizier, saying he wished to praise him to one and all for the effort he took to salvage the wrecked ship and the merchandise on board.
Captain Ramose can think of nothing but what he’ll wear and how he’ll stand among some of the highest men in the land of Kemet.”
Bak raised an eyebrow. “I recall Ramose only two days ago sneering at the thought of attending the party.”
Hori, still smarting, allowed himself a faint smile. “I told him of your journey south, saying nothing but hinting at much, as I did with Userhet. He practically shoved the rope into my arms and pulled a tattered wig out of a chest, asking if I thought it too out of style to wear.” He glanced at Imsiba as if seeking an ally, and spoke again to Bak. “He wasn’t joking or putting me off. I think he’s as free of guilt as you are, sir.”
“I agree.” Bak stood up, took a turn across the room, and stopped at the door. “But if we err and he’s not the man he seems, the hints you dropped should make him act.” He laid a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Go now and search out Hapuseneb and Nebamon, one after the other. According to Nebwa, they both have many donkeys standing idle at Kor.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy hurried away and Bak turned to the big Medjay.
After spending the previous day upriver, the bandage on Imsiba’s arm was none too clean and needed to be changed.
He could think of no better time to get it wet. “Come, Imsiba.
Let’s go for a swim. You’re in need of cheering.”
Long, powerful strokes took Bak up the river and away from Imsiba, who lay on the surface of the water, clinging to a half submerged boulder to prevent the current from carrying him downstream. Their two kilts fluttered like white birds on the branches of a tamarisk tree, one of several growing along the bank at the base of the towering spur wall that barred desert traffic from the river terraces. Normally they would have gone farther afield to swim in a cove they especially favored, but with Hori reporting regularly, this was more convenient.
Reaching a point well above the spur wall, he rolled onto his back and let himself drift downstream. He wished with all his heart that he could help Imsiba, but other than urge him to swallow his pride and pursue Sitamon with a will, he could do nothing.
He turned his thoughts to Hori and the game he had created during those long, sleepless hours before dawn. Was he wasting time, as Imsiba thought? Or would one of his suspects break and run, hastening to the tomb Intef had found in hopes of salvaging what he could before Bak located it? Would the tomb contain an uncut elephant tusk? Or were the tusks being smuggled by some other person, one who had nothing to do with Wensu, Roy, and the headless man?
He thought not-if Wensu had indeed planted the tusk on Mahu’s ship, as he believed.
Water splashed into his mouth, rousing him. He glanced toward the fortress, where he saw Hori trotting along the lower terrace. Rolling over, he swam to the trees and pulled himself up on the stone revetment which held
the bank in place. With the river still running high, much of the protective facing was under water. Imsiba abandoned his makeshift anchor and swam to him. The leaves whispered in a desultory breeze. A sparrow hopped from branch to branch, scolding a black and white cur sniffing the riverbank in search of rats.
“I saw both Hapuseneb and Nebamon.” Hori halted at the end of the terrace where it butted against the spur wall and gave himself a moment to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but they were together. I saw no way to draw one aside and then the other, so I told my tale to both at the same time.”
Bak stood up and began to dress. “It can’t be helped. What happened?”
“They both said they’d be glad to loan their donkeys, should you need them. Nebamon asked questions without number, most of them vague and devious. At first I couldn’t understand his aim.” The boy wrinkled his nose, showing his distaste for awkward or unnecessary guile. “I finally decided he was trying to learn if you were following the track of the headless man, but he didn’t want Hapuseneb to know he believed so unlikely a man existed.”
“Nebamon set us onto the headless man,” Imsiba said to Bak. “Would he have done so if he were laden with guilt?”
“He’s never been high on my list. He’s not a man who takes risks, and he hasn’t the wealth to obtain smuggled goods in the quantity we saw on Captain Roy’s ship. He’s even now treading close to the edge of failure.” Bak bent over and ruffled his wet hair, splattering water. “Desperate men ofttimes summon courage uncommon to their nature, but I can’t see Nebamon doing so.”
“What did you get from Hapuseneb?” Imsiba asked Hori.
“He was quick to realize Nebamon was holding something back. After that, he said almost nothing, merely watched and listened.” The boy grinned. “I can see Nebamon even now, pinned beneath Hapuseneb’s sharp eyes, wiggling like a serpent, swearing he doesn’t believe in a headless man.”
“I’ve always thought Hapuseneb a most likable man,” Imsiba said, scowling. “Determined, yes, but not ruthless.”
Bak spoke aloud his reasoning of the early morning hours.
“His ships both north and south of the Belly of Stones carry many precious items, as do the large caravans he uses to transport goods past the rapids. He complains about the tolls, but his profits are high. He has the nerve to smuggle and the means. A question remains, one I’ve asked before.”
He looked at Imsiba and at Hori. “Would he use another man’s ship to carry contraband when he could keep tighter control by using a vessel of his own?”
Imsiba shook his head. “I think it unlikely.”
“I’d better see Lieutenant Kay.” Hori said.
From the grim look on Imsiba’s face, Bak could see that their thoughts traveled a like path. Kay was skilled with the bow and arrow, while Userhet’s knowledge of the weapon was unknown, unlikely even. Userhet could read and write and so could Kay, but did the officer have sufficient compet-ence to create a false but convincing manifest?
“Go first to the scribal office building, Hori. Talk with the men who’ve seen Kay’s reports and learn how skilled he is at writing.”
“Yes, sir.” The youthful scribe pivoted on his heel, and hurried away.
Hori trotted along the terrace, carrying a basket that bumped his left leg with each step. Imsiba and Bak hastened toward him, meeting him halfway between the spur wall and the southern gate.
The youth held out the basket, which contained a half dozen maces, battle axes, and slings. “Lieutenant Kay was happy to loan these weapons, sir, but when I told him you were going off into the desert, he said you’d fare better borrowing a few skilled archers.”
Bak turned the boy around and aimed him back the way he had come. “How accomplished is Kay with brush and ink?”
“His writing is terrible, sir.” The boy grinned, but when he saw how serious Bak was, he quickly sobered. “As you directed, I went first to the scribal office building. There I looked at reports he’s submitted to Commandant Thuty. He turned in two I could barely read. According to the chief scribe, the commandant threw up his hands in disgust and now the lieutenant goes to a scribe each morning to dictate his reports.”
“So the headless man is Userhet,” Imsiba said, his voice grim.
Hori frowned, unconvinced. “I know he’s overseer of warehouses, but even that lofty position wouldn’t give him access to bows and quivers. The scribe responsible for archery equipment is too strict a guardian.”
Bak thought back, trying to recall actions once taken for granted, now suspicious. “I’ve seen him often at the quay, 228 / Lauren Haney meeting cargo ships laden with garrison supplies, including weapons. As the first man on board, he probably took what he wanted from among the bundles destined for the armory and altered the list of contents. Then he must’ve slipped the weapons in among the objects to be stored in a warehouse, where no one would’ve been the wiser. My question is: How skilled is he with a bow?”
“I’ve yet to find a man who’s seen him use one,” Hori said.
Imsiba stiffened; he snapped off a curse in his own tongue.
“I must go to Sitamon at once.”
“No!” Bak grabbed his arm. “She could speak out of turn, and that we can’t risk.”
“If he harms her…” The Medjay’s anger was palpable.
Psuro burst through the fortress gate. The stocky Medjay spotted them and raced along the terrace to meet them. “Sir!
Userhet has vanished. He entered the sacred precincts of the lord Horus of Buhen and a short time later, he walked out the pylon gate. He’s not been seen since.”
“He’s bolted!” Bak was elated. His plan had borne fruit.
“Hori, go summon the boy Mery. And you, Psuro, must load onto our skiff food, water, and weapons and the rope and tools you’ll find in my office. Then stay with the vessel. You’ll travel south with us.”
“Can I now go to Sitamon?” Imsiba demanded.
“No. You must go instead to the physician. Your wound needs cleaning, a fresh poultice, a new bandage.” Bak laid a hand on the Medjay’s shoulder, smiled. “Don’t fret, Imsiba.
I must report to Thuty, and while I’m there I’ll speak with mistress Tiya. She’ll be happy, I’m sure, to invite Sitamon and the boy into her household, keeping them there until Userhet is safely within our grasp.”
Chapter Fifteen
“We looked everywhere for the skiff, sir.” Pashenuro, the short, brawny Medjay sergeant next in line after Imsiba, stood stiff and uncomfortable, chagrined. “We never thought he’d leave it on the riverbank, lying in plain sight among the vessels the officers use for sport.”
Bak looked across the harbor in the general direction of the boats in question, but from where he stood on the quay he could not see them. Water lapped the smooth white stones at his feet, rocking the skiff moored alongside. Tangled together in an untidy heap were the food and drink, weapons, and tools Psuro had stowed on board.
Exasperation crept into his voice. “Have you never heard, Pashenuro, that the best place to hide an object is among like articles?”
The Medjay flushed. “Yes, sir.”
Bak eyed the massive fortress wall facing the harbor, its facade stark white in the midday sun. Thin shadows delin-eated projecting towers and accented details of the battlements; black rectangles marked openings through the towered gates. Atop tall flagstaffs that rose before the pylon gate, four red pennants fluttered and curled in a lazy breeze. A dog wailed somewhere inside the city, setting Bak’s teeth on edge.
“Userhet was last seen walking out the pylon gate. Why wasn’t he spotted when he shoved his skiff into the water?”
“He was, sir, but as he carried a bow and quiver, he was taken for an officer.”
“A bow?” Surprise gave way to satisfaction. A fleeing man does not take along a weapon for which he has no talent.
“He left the sacred precincts of Horus of Buhen empty-handed.”
Pashenuro nodded. “Our men are ev
en now searching for a hiding place outside the walls of this city.”
Bak saw Imsiba hurrying Psuro and Mery out the fortress gate. “When you locate it, summon Hori. I want a record of each and every item you find there.”
“Yes, sir.” Pashenuro shifted his feet and took a fresh grip on his spear. “I feel a witless oaf, sir, not thinking to look closer at the officers’ skiffs.”
“We thought to let him go anyway,” Bak admitted, “to give him his head and let him lead us to the place where he hides the contraband.” But we didn’t expect to follow so far behind, he thought, or to lose him before we started.
“We’ll go first to the cove.” Bak ducked, letting the lower yard swing overhead as Imsiba adjusted the sail to catch the breeze. He could see ahead the patch of boiling water at the collapsed end of the ledge where Wensu and Roy had met the headless man. The headless man who now had a name: Userhet. “If we find no tracks heading out to the desert, we’ll sail on to the backwater Ahmose described, the place where Userhet hides his skiff.”
“What if we come upon Wensu’s ship? He has six men.
We’re only three.” Psuro spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, a warrior untroubled by the odds.
“Four!” Mery grabbed a sling from among the weapons piled in the boat and pantomimed firing off a rock. “My father taught me to use this, and I’ve practiced a lot. You can count on me.”
Smothering a smile, Bak answered Psuro. “I doubt the gods will be so generous as to drop Wensu into our hands, but if they do, so much the better. I promised Userhet to Commandant Thuty, and I’d like nothing more than to give him the Kushite as well.”
“Nebwa sent men to Kefia’s farm,” Imsiba said, his eyes locked on the frothing waters ahead, “and he sent a couple to Ahmose’s island. A good, loud shout will no doubt bring them should we need them.”
The breeze shoved the skiff upriver and the skilled use of sail and rudder drove them past the rapids. They rounded the mound of boulders, and the cove opened out before them. Moored hard against the ledge was a traveling ship, small and graceful, a vessel of elegance and beauty. The head of the divine cow, its horns twisted in the Kushite fashion, decorated the prow. Imsiba sucked in his breath, Psuro gaped, Mery stared wide-eyed.