by Lauren Haney
With a look of pure gratitude, Kasaya hurried away.
Bak passed through the gate in the opposite direction, clinging to his serious mien. Khawet clearly could see no humor in the situation. "I'm truly sorry, mistress. After you've both calmed down, I'll send him back to clean up the mess they made."
"You'll do no such thing!" She must have realized how harsh she sounded, for her voice softened to a more reasonable level. "You sent him here for a purpose, that I understand. But I've had enough of him, of his endless prying and continual flirting. More than enough. I won't have him back."
"His greatest value is not to pry, but to protect you and yours."
"No." Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line, the resemblance to her father uncanny. "I know you mean well. Lieutenant, but I've neither the time nor the inclination to look after that overgrown babe and his hairy friend."
He could see she would not reverse her decision. He was certain she would be more reasonable if she had less to think about, but worry for her father, whether really ill or pretending, and the responsibility for managing so large a household was enough to distress anyone.
Bali had assumed Antef would have gone directly to the quarry to relieve his men of their onerous task. Instead, he found the troop captain at garrison headquarters, seated on a stool in the room he used as an office, dictating to a scribe who sat cross-legged on the floor, writing faster than any man Bak had ever seen. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a woven reed chest filled with scrolls shoved against one wall, weapons and quarry tools stacked against the rear wall, and two stools near the door. Antef waved him toward a stool and continued without pause. The document, Bak realized, was a list of craftsmen and laborers needed in the quarries to replace the soldiers.
"That should be sufficient," Antef said at the end. "If we ask for too many men, we might get none."
"Yes, sir." Smiling, the scribe collected his writing implements and left the room.
Bak eyed the officer with interest. "The last I heard, Amonhotep intended to write that letter."
Antef grinned. "If you want a task done right, do it yourself-and this I wanted done right. Amonhotep has vowed to send off whatever I give him." Sobering, he added, "I've no objection to having my men move rough-sculpted works from the quarry to the river. Soldiers have always helped out in that way, and the time it takes is slight. I do object to their doing the work of craftsmen, spending all their days toiling on the stone when they should be practicing the arts of war."
"What will Djehuty do when he realizes you've usurped his authority?" ,
"He hates to be made to look the fool, especially before his lofty friends in Waset. He'll let the matter stand." Antef grinned again. "Of course, I dare not turn my back for a while. He's certain to retaliate."
They both spoke, Bak noticed, as if Djehuty would live on into the future, as if no threat clouded his existence.
"Commandant Thuty isn't perfect," he said, "but I thank the lord Amon he's as good a man as he is."
"You've been blessed by the gods." Antef glanced around the room. "What'd I do with my baton of office?" He pivoted on his stool to search through the clutter against the rear wall. Locating the baton among a sheaf of spears, he stood up. "I must deliver the good news to the men at the quarry. Why have you come?"
"I'd like another look at the garrison daybooks."
Antef grabbed a tunic off a small upended sledge that had a broken runner and slipped the garment over his head. "Why?"
While Bak explained, the troop captain pulled his broad collar out from beneath the fabric. When it would not immediately lie flat, he fumbled with the clasp, undid the collar, and tossed it onto a stool. As soon as he had heard enough, he strode to the door without a word, shouted a name, and his scribe came running.
A short time later, Bak sat on the floor of a tiny courtyard shaded by palm fronds spread loosely across two sturdy reed beams. Lying along a mudbrick bench in order of their dates were the dozen or more scrolls the scribe had brought from the records office.
Once again he unrolled the copy of the official report of the sandstorm. This time he knew better what to look for, more specific information based on the additional knowledge he had gained over the past few days. As was to be expected, with Djehuty the author of the document, no mention was made of his irrational order to keep the men moving in the face of disaster, or of men who had found shelter but had turned away their fellows. To be fair, Djehuty might never have been told of the latter offense, but a good commander would have dug the truth from the survivors.
A third, unexpected omission proved far more interesting. The report included no recommendation that Min receive the Gold of Honor, contrary to the statement in the sergeant's personal file. Had Djehuty failed to make the request because he knew Min was no longer among the living?
With nothing further to be gleaned, Bak set the report aside. Picking up the daybook that included entries about the storm, he searched this time for mention of Min. Exactly a week after he and Djehuty returned from the desert, a brief entry indicated that a Sergeant Min had departed from the garrison. No further information was given. Bak glanced back through the daybook and forward. Entries were often slipshod, omitting a detail or two, but they never failed to provide the reason why a man left the garrison, his destination, and usually the name of the ship on which he sailed. Min had never left Abu, Bak felt sure.
He moved on to the more recent daybooks, looking specifically for information about Antef's comings and goings when the first four murders occurred. On the surface, the troop captain's fife appeared full to the brim with interesting and challenging tasks. In reality, his days were all much alike, his duties unremarkable. He spent a few hours each day at the quarry and the rest of his time in Abu, overseeing the routine activities of the garrison. Each night he slept in his residence, whether alone or not the daybook made no mention.
Only once in the past six weeks had he ventured away from Abu. A month ago, he had traveled into the desert to inspect patrols, the journey lasting four days. Sergeant Senmut had been slain on the last day of the trip, when Antef and a sergeant, accompanied by ten spearmen, had been far out on the desert, inspecting a six-man patrol. Whether they had returned before Senmut was slain or later in the day was a question the sergeant could answer.
Chapter Fourteen
"Where's Kasaya now?" Psuro asked.
"At the river, trying to wash the monkey." Bak grinned. "The creature hates water. It's all arms and legs, screaming as if caught in the jaws of a lion."
Psuro gave him a sour look. "You don't intend to let him keep it, do you?"
"He may as well. The damage has already been done." "Pahared's wife won't be happy if it gets into her stores." Psuro looked pointedly toward the door, where the woman in question stood in a shaft of sunlight, haggling with a traveling metalsmith over the price of bronze rings, pendants, and bangles, finery for the young women who toiled in her house of pleasure.
Bak followed his glance. She was as sharp-tongued as she was sharp-eyed and she allowed no transgressions. It took a strong-willed man to live with such an exacting woman-or one who spent his days on his ship, as Pahared did.
"I told him he has to keep it leashed-and tied with a knot it can't undo. The first time it gets loose, it goes back to the sycamore tree." Taking care not to stir up the sediment, he raised his beer jar to his lips. "Now tell" -me what you learned of Min."
"I went to the garrison offices, stores, armory, anyplace I could find someone who'd talk to me. Not a man in Min's unit survived the storm, and not many support personnel remain in the garrison." Psuro eyed with appreciation a tall, slim young woman from the land of Kush, standing in a rear doorway in a suggestive pose. The girl's dusky cheeks, forehead, and shoulders had been scarified, her hair dyed a coppery orange. "Worse yet, details have blurred after five long years. The truth isn't easy to come by."
"Do those who remain remember him with a smile or a frown?"
"They say he was a hard man to please on the practice field. Experienced in the arts of war, skilled with weapons, proud of his battle scars." Psuro winked at the young woman. "All agreed he was a man to avoid in games of chance, dishonest to the core. But once befriended, a friend for life."
Taking the wink as an invitation, the girl ambled across the room, swaying as if touched by a gentle breeze. The Medjay, enthralled, lost the power of speech.
Scowling his impatience, Bak waved her away. "After we finish here, Psuro, I've another task for you. One you must do right away. Our time is running out."
"Yes, sir." Psuro watched her retreating backside with obvious regret. "One man, an armorer some years past the prime of life, said he thought never to see Min care for a woman. The sergeant was too fond of himself to give freely and too much the man of action to be gentled. When first he expounded the virtues of mistress Hatnofer, all who toiled in the armory thought he was jesting. Until one day the chief armorer took her name too lightly. Min threw him against the wall, furious. He truly loved her, they realized, and never again did they cast aspersions."
Bak nodded, satisfied. Min and Hatnofer had indeed been close. "Why, then, did he leave her behind? Did anyone say?"
"No one could understand." Psuro tore his eyes from the girl, standing again in the doorway. "Rumors abounded that he never set sail, that he was thrown down the water gauge. He never sent word back to friends, saying how happy or discontented he was at his new post, nor was his body ever reported found in the river. Mistress Hatnofer gave nothing
way, no angry words or any sign of sorrow. Just a growing bitterness through the years."
"He's dead. I'm sure he is." Bak set his beer jar on the floor and stood up. "He knew Djehuty's secret, some shamefill and abhorrent act, and he had to be silenced."
Rising to his feet, Psuro gave the young woman a final, lingering look. "You think Djehuty slew him?"
"I'd bet a year's ration of grain that he did. Or he gave the task to someone else."
They strode out the door and turned down the narrow lane, vrhich was heated by the midday sun, tempered by a soft breeze. A train of donkeys, their backs loaded high with fresh green fodder, clip-clopped across the intersection ahead. The heavy smell of new-cut clover made Bak sneeze.
While they waited for the animals to pass, he plucked a stalk bright with yellow flowers and nibbled the sweet blossoms. "You must go to the garrison and seek out a sergeant." He went on to explain what he had learned of Antef's whereabouts during the earlier murders and how the sergeant should be able to prove or disprove the officer's innocence at the time Senmut was slain.
"In the meantime," he said with a grimace, "I'll go again to the governor's villa."
"I won't see him!" Djehuty's voice, surprisingly strong for a man so sick he had taken to his bed, carried down the narrow hallway. "Why is he here in Abu? Didn't I order him to leave?"
"He came because the vizier wished it, sir." Amonhotep's voice carried an edge of irritation. Obeying the slightest and most whimsical command of a man behaving like a spoiled, fearful child had begun to try even his patience.
"I don't care. Send him away!" "I can't do that."
"You can and you will!" Djehuty spat out the words like one tomcat spitting at another.
"Sir, if anything happens to you..."
"Nothing will happen!" Djehuty snapped. "As long as you remain close, no one will dare approach me." His voice took on a querulous note. "You're the son I never had, the one individual I trust. With you by my side, I don't need that wretched Lieutenant Bak or his Medjays. Or Ineni. Or Antef. Or ... or anyone!"
"You have mistress Khawet, sir."
Djehuty dismissed his daughter with a snort.
Bak muttered a quick prayer to the lord Amon, seeking patience, and marched down the corridor to the bedchamber. The governor lay amid the usual tangle of sheets, his head and shoulders raised on folded sleeping pallets and pillows. The high windows allowed fresh air to circulate, but the cloying scent of an overly sweet perfume vied with the odor of the unwashed body it was meant to conceal. The brindle dog was gone, but its smell lingered. Poor Amonhotep, Bak thought.
"Governor Djehuty," he said. "I thank you for seeing me. I know you're unwell, so I feel greatly favored to be admitted to your presence." The words came out unplanned, an inspiration of the lord Amon, no doubt.
The aide gave him a startled look.
Djehuty stared at the bandages around Bak's upper body and arm. He seemed about to comment, but changed his mind and glared. "You... You ... What're you doing in my bedchamber?"
Bak regretted making life more difficult for Amonhotep, but his sole hope of breaking the governor's silence was to shock him. "I've come to speak of the sandstorm in which so many men were lost..."
"That again. Must you continue to probe an incident all who live in Abu wish to forget?"
". . . and to-speak of Sergeant Min, the man who saved your life."
Djehuty drew his head back as if struck. "Min? He ... He's gone. He sailed away to Mennufer." As he went on, his words came out with growing confidence, a tale wellpracticed, dredged up from memory. "He asked for a transfer to the garrison there, thinking to better himself at a larger
post closer to the heart of the army. Close to our northern capital, where he might catch the eye of Menkheperre Thutmose. I recommended him for the gold of honor, thinking to aide his cause."
Menkheperre Thutmose, rightful heir to the throne and coruler in name only, was rebuilding the army to its former glory while, according to rumor, he bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to grasp the reins of power. With Maatkare Hatshepsut preferring to reside in the royal house in Waset close to her priestly power base, the young king had chosen the administrative capital of Mennufer as his home and as the seat of command for the army.
Bak did not believe Djehuty for a moment. Much of the tale made sense, but he had been too quick to explain. As for a golden fly, the official report of the storm proved that untrue.
"Sergeant Min was the tie that bound Hatnofer to the storm," he said, his voice cool, crisp. "They were lovers. So close he fought for her honor in the garrison. Did you know that?"
"No, I ... " Djehuty's eyes darted around the room, seeking a way out. "Yes, she told me."
"Min survived the storm, but a short time later he vanished. She was slain because she was close to him and because she was next in fine below you, managing your household."
"Amonhotep fits into your so-called pattern as well if not better than Hatnofer." Djehuty's voice challenged. "He actually survived the storm; she never set foot in the desert."
And he is, in every sense, your right hand, Bak thought, but you would never acknowledge how much you lean on him, how much you need him. "He was on a ship returning to Abu from Buhen the morning she was slain."
"The slayer could have awaited his arrival. Barring an unforeseen delay, the vessel was expected that day."
In a way, Djehuty had a point. Had Hatnofer been slain merely because circumstances threw her in harm's way? Or had she guessed the slayer's identity and faced him with her knowledge?
Aware that the pause had stolen the momentum from his questions, Bak said, "They say in the barracks that Min never sailed to Mennufer. He was slain before ever setting foot on a ship. Would such a rumor survive if it had no substance?"
The brief silence had bolstered Djehuty's defenses; his chin jutted and he glared. "Go away, Lieutenant. I'm ill, too ill by far to respond to your vile insinuations." He pulled the sheet up beneath his chin and rolled onto his side, his back to the two officers standing by the bed.
"Sir!" Amonhotep, his face set, reached out as if to shake his master. Within a finger's breadth of the governor's shoulder, he pulled his hand back. "If you're to help yourself, you must help Lieutenant Bak."
Djehuty tugged the sheet higher, covering his ears.
Bak walked to the door, thoroughly disgusted. "If you wish to die, sir, you hav
e my blessing." He stopped on the threshold, waiting for a reaction. He got none.
Bak stood at the top of the stairway rising up the slope from the landingplace. Below, Ineni stood on the deck of a small cargo ship from which baskets piled high with fresh produce were being off-loaded. Fruits and vegetables raised on the estate at Nubt had been shipped upstream to fill the governor's belly and that of his household. Sailors and household servants carrying laden baskets on their shoulders trudged up the stairs and through the gate past the sentry.
He was far from alone, yet he felt uneasy. Was the archer yet alive, hidden somewhere behind him, even now seating an arrow in Ws bow? Swinging around, he studied the walls and rooftops of the governor's villa and that of Nebmose. He saw no one but the guard at the front gate.
Shrugging off his momentary anxiety, he turned away to walk along the terrace. The interview with Djehuty had disheartened him. How could he hope to protect a man who would do nothing to help himself? He strode past four small boys playing tag, their laughter and shouts filling the air with joy. He fervently wished he had as few cares as they. He circled around the water gauge, raised a hand in greeting to the women collected at the public well, and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by willow trees in front of the mansion of the lord Khnum. Barely aware of the chatter of women drawing water, he tried to make sense of all he had learned thus far.
He had been so quick to see the patterns in the deaths that had occurred. Why could he not identify the slayer? He wanted above all things to succeed in his task, as he always had before. Here he was, however, unable to see the smallest glimmer of light. He had been utterly convinced the sandstorm was the key, and he continued to believe so, but each time he learned a new fact, it led nowhere. If only Djehuty would reveal his secret! But he would not. And if he-did, would it help point the way?
The governor was exactly as Nofery had painted him as a young man: spoiled, stubborn, heeding no one's advice, taking on authority too great for his abilities. The first three traits Bak had seen for himself. The disaster of the storm, the loss of so many innocent lives, had undoubtedly been the result of the last.