The Right Hand of Amon lb-1

by Lauren Haney

  Returning to the main room, he settled down to a long and tedious search, looking specifically for clues as to where Inyotef might have gone and the reason he wanted Amon-Psaro dead. Bak tried to lose himself in his task, moving systematically from one chest to another and on to the walls and floor, probing for a secret hiding place. The first room finished, he searched the next and then the next. The rich smell of braised lamb, wafted through the open doors, rousing pangs of hunger, announcing the approach of midday. He longed to quit, to leave this dreary house and walk the streets of the city, searching for the man rather than some minuscule clue he could overlook as easily as find.

  Finished with the interior, he had nothing to show for his effort but a growing sense of failure. When Senu's oldest son arrived with a leaf-wrapped package of grilled fish, a cluster of plump grapes, and two jars of beer, Bak could have hugged the boy. The food and drink, the cheerful voice, and the smile were welcome indeed.

  "How far away is the caravan?" he asked, ripping the flesh from the bones, gobbling it like a man starved for a week.

  "They'll reach the gate within the hour."

  The youth reported that his father had relayed Bak's messages to Imsiba and the others. Extra guards had been assigned to Amon-Psaro's route, and every man who could be spared was searching for Inyotef. As far as anyone knew, he had not been seen all day. Bak, his self-confidence wavering, tried not to think how foolish he would feel if someone other than the pilot attempted to slay the Kushite king.

  He could see the boy longed to be on his way, afraid he would miss the upcoming spectacle, so he dismissed him and went out to the courtyard to finish his meal in a sliver of shade beside the wall.

  His hunger sated, he searched the court with its round oven, large water jars, and grain silos. He was sweeping up the last of the grain he had spilled when the sounds in the distance changed. The strident call of a single trumpet was lost in the blare of several. Now and then, when the breeze blew from the right direction, the faint sound of the accompanying clappers and flutes wafted across the lower city. A rumble of drums filled in the background. Amon-Psaro's caravan was approaching the fortress gate.

  Bak was on the roof, almost finished with his search, when a flourish of drumbeats announced the presentation of arms to Amon-Psaro. Soon, the king would march inside the fortress. He and Woser would lead the slow ceremonial procession down the main thoroughfare to the mansion of the lady Hathor. There they would make obeisance to her guest, the lord Amon, and to the goddess herself. Then, with the priestly contingent and the gods joining the procession, they would march back through the fortress, down the cut in the escarpment, and through the lower city to the harbor.

  Bak thought Amon-Psaro fairly safe inside the fortress. It was the latter portion of the march he worried about most. The descent throligh the cut and the streets of the lower city would be lined with hundreds of civilians as well as soldiers. More worrisome yet would be the harbor, the confusion of boarding the rivercraft in a place Inyotef knew better than any other man in Iken.

  Tired and discouraged, he walked to the edge of the roof and eyed the low golden dunes outside the wall. Long fingers of sand, drifts deposited through the years by winds blowing in from the desert, reached out to a distant, ruined block of buildings.

  His eye was drawn to the base of the serpentine wall and a wedge of golden brown close against the mudbrick. The end of a board, protruding from around a curve. It looked too sturdy to discard in the desert, too valuable. With his senses quickening, he stepped off the roof and, arms spread wide for balance, walked slowly along the top of the wall, following its curve. The board, he soon saw, was the sidepiece of a ladder partly covered with sand. From the way the drift lay around it, he guessed it had been buried there and a recent stiff breeze had uncovered it. Consumed by curiosity, he dropped off the wall, letting the sand cushion his fall.

  He shoved his fingers into the soft, warm sand, picked up the ladder, and stood it on end. It was almost new and tall enough to reach the roof of Inyotef's house. Had the pilot hidden it, meaning to return at a later time? Or had he used it to leave the house?

  Turning his back to the wall, Bak studied the low dunes. The smooth parallel ridges were marred by the tiny footprints of birds and rodents, but no larger, deeper indentations that would indicate the recent passage of a man. A rough funnel-shaped disturbance twenty or so paces away could mean a small creature had found something of interest beneath the surface. Trying not to hope, but hoping anyway, Bak hurried to the spot, dug into the sand, and revealed a big, tightly woven reed chest. Practically holding his breath, he swept aside the sand on top, broke the seal, and raised the lid. It was filled with large pottery jars, each stoppered with a dried-mud plug to keep out prying animals and insects. A jar containing grain had cracked, inviting a mouse or rat to investigate. Elated by his discovery, Bak broke the plugs on all the other jars, revealing beer, food, clothing, small weapons, and jewelry including two golden flies.

  Inyotef, he guessed, had dared not leave the chest of supplies on his skiff for fear every vessel in the harbor would be examined before Amon-Psaro set foot on the quay. So he had buried it here, intending to return after the search for him died down.

  Bak saved the most intriguing item until last, a pottery cylinder plugged on both ends with mud. He broke one end away, reached inside, and pulled out a papyrus scroll. Sitting on the warm sand, praying for enlightenment, he unrolled his prize, which was stained and dog-eared, yellowing from use and age. Almost afraid to breathe, he began to read.

  "To my beloved brother Inyotef," it said. "He's gone, the one I loved above all others. His many sweet words, his pledge to love me forever, were like chaff in the wind. One night he lay with me, whispering endearments; the next day he was gone. A message came, I've heard, a letter announcing his father's death. He boarded a ship for vile Kush without so much as a good-bye. I told myself he would summon me as soon as his throne was secure, but now four months have passed, and I've heard nothing. I can no longer bear the pain, my brother. The river beckons. Remember me always, dearest Inyotef, and forgive me."

  It was signed "Sonisonbe."

  Bak let out his breath long and slow. The words brother and sister were often used between lovers, but in this case he felt sure Sonisonbe was in fact Inyotef's birth sister. The elation he felt at finding the letter, the sense of accomplishment, vied in his heart with pity and sadness for the girl abandoned by Amon-Psaro and the dark legacy she had left Inyotef.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bak stood on the northern quay, looking down into Inyotef's skiff. Nothing had changed since last he had seen the vessel. Sails, lines, oars, fishing gear were exactly as they had been the evening before. The pilot either meant to flee in another boat or intended to leave Men in a manner Bak could not begin to imagine. Surely not by way of the desert. If he chose a path close to the river, he would easily be caught. To leave the river and its life-giving water was suicide.

  No, Bak thought, he's a sailor, a man of the river. He'll escape by boat. The wording was too pessimistic, so he amended the prediction: He'll try to escape by boat, and I'll be there to stop him.

  Clinging to the notion, he studied the vessels moored along the quay. Other than a fishing boat with a broken rudder and a raft built of papyrus bundles so soggy it was near to foundering, Inyotef's skiff was the only small boat remaining. The rest had been claimed by their owners and moved across the harbor to the southern quay. The barge of Amon was tied close against the revetment, rocking on the gentle swells, its gilded hull glittering in the midafternoon sun. On the warship moored close by, pennants of every color fluttered from masts and lines; its wood-andbronze fittings gleamed. Sailors lounged on its deck and atop the cabin, awaiting the gods and the king, the priests and the local dignitaries. Their lively banter with the men on the decks of the two traveling ships, which would ferry the king and his party carried across the water.

  Bak strode to the end of the quay and l
ooked out over the river, its waters a reddish brown flecked with silver where the sun caressed the ripples. His abused muscles had loosened up, but he was tired and uneasy, his mood in need of continual bolstering. He had rushed from Inyotef's house to the mansion of Hathor, where he found Imsiba and the Medjays standing outside, awaiting their royal charge. Huy and the other garrison officers had been with them. He had exchanged his knowledge for theirs: Inyotef had not been seen since the previous evening.

  Leaving the pageantry behind, he and six borrowed spearmen had hastened to the lower city. Kasaya, who had returned from the island to help, joined them there. The small party had swept through the homes and warehouses along the official route of march, warning the residents to invite only people they knew onto their rooftops and clearing away or blocking potential hiding places both near and as far away as an arrow could fly, praying all the while they would find Inyotef. The gods had failed to smile on them. The spearmen had gradually lost their spark and even lighthearted Kasaya had to work at a smile.

  Bak eyed the southern quay, crowded with vessels of all sizes, their decks jammed with spectators. Nothing could hold the smaller boats back, he knew, after the official party sailed out of the harbor.

  He hurried back to shore, passed through the line of sentries posted on the slope to keep the spectators off the quay, and stood at the lower end of the thoroughfare down which Amon-Psaro would march. The route was lined with men, women, and children, the buzz of their combined voices rising and ebbing, shattered now and again by a childish laugh, a yell, a hawker touting his wares. Soldiers dressed in ceremonial finery, their weapons polished to a fine sheen, held back the crowd. People from faraway Kemet wearing white linen and bright jewelry rubbed shoulders with poor, half-naked farmers who lived off the sparse lands along the Belly of Stones and ragged nomads who roamed the desert. Wealthy tribesmen and villagers clad in white kilts overlaid with colorful cloaks and jewelry stood among people from far to the south dressed in skins and feathers and fabrics, bejeweled and beribboned, their faces and bodies scarified or painted. Bak imagined the desert tracks and the river during the past few days dotted with people coming from afar to see the greatest of the gods and the Kushite king who had come to seek his help.

  Shouldering his way through the spectators, he located a hawker selling beer and sweet bread. He negotiated a trade and, loaf and jar in hand, walked to a crumbling warehouse ten or so paces behind the people massed along the street. The spearman standing atop a ruined wall, watching the throng, jumped down to report that he had seen nothing of note. As he melted into the crowd, Bak climbed the wall and sat down, letting his feet dangle. From there, both the lower portion of the street and the harbor spread out below him. He spotted Kasaya and the other spearmen moving among the spectators, chatting, asking questions, studying faces.

  Bak tore chunks from the bread, sweetened with chopped dates, and sipped the beer. He longed to forget Inyotef and enjoy the pageantry. The day remained temperate, the breeze as soft and gentle as the kiss of a goddess. The air smelled of the river and fish, of sweat and perfume. Fine dust stirred up by many feet settled on moist bodies and greased hair. Dogs tall and sleek or short and round, black, brindle, white, or dun-colored, trotted among the onlookers, sniffing heels, probing leaf packets emptied of food, exploring. A few donkeys tied well out of the way munched hay, stamped impatient feet, swished their tails to rid themselves of flies. A trio of crows called from the rooftops, their cawing raucous and persistent.

  As much as he wished to forget his mission, thoughts of Inyotef intruded. And fear for Amon-Psaro.

  "If he means to attack, he'll do it now," Captain Mery said, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring crowd, "before Amon-Psaro steps onto the quay."

  The officer, a hard jawed, muscular man closing on forty years, stood tall and straight on the prow of his warship, watching the priests at the head of the procession march to the quay. He was garbed much as Senu and the other garrison officers: short white kilt, broad multicolored bead collar, bracelets, armlets, and anklets. He wore a short, tightly curled wig, several rings, and carried a baton of office. Bak, standing beside him, felt like a common sparrow sharing a perch with some bright bird of passage.

  For perhaps the hundredth time, he checked that all was secure. His eyes traveled from the priests-distinguished by their ankle-length white kilts, wide beaded collars, shaven heads, standards held high-down the sloping street and along the quay to the traveling ships moored at the far end. He scanned the harbor and studied the vessels tied against the southern quay, large boats and small crammed together in reluctant assembly.

  "A man who can run with ease might escape in the confusion of the moment," he admitted, "but remember: Inyotef's hampered by a weak leg. And he's long been a man of the water, more skilled than most with a boat."

  Mery's quick glance conveyed a grudging respect. "He's so agile on a ship that I forget his limp."

  Bak looked back at the procession, the chanting priests, marching downd' the street while the enthralled masses pressed in from either side, shouting their adoration, jostling for a closer look. The priests passed through the line of soldiers posted along the revetment and stepped onto the quay. The rapture on their faces never wavered, but Bak could well imagine how relieved they must be to reach the open harbor.

  While the lead priests marched past the warship, Kenamon walked onto the quay, waving his censor before him. As befitted his illustrious position, he was decked out in full regalia: long white kilt, short-sleeved tunic, fine linen robe, gold pectoral hanging from his breast. His face was calm and untroubled, free of such mundane worldly cares as the possibility of an assassination. Beside him walked the priest of the lady Hathor, a chubby young man, not as imposing but equally tranquil. A cloud of sweet-scented incense drifted around them.

  The sailors pressed against the rail of the warship, their eyes wide with awe, their shouts lost in the overall clamor. Bak nodded at Kasaya, standing at the head of the gangplank, clutching a long spear, his eyes darting back and forth along the quay, his face tight with tension. The spearmen were on board the traveling ships, watching, waiting, but no less enthralled than the adoring spectators.

  Four lesser priests walked behind Kenamon, purifying the deities' path with incense and libation. The lord Amon followed, his gilded barque carried high on the shoulders of four white-garbed bearers, his golden shrine open so all could view the elegant golden statue of a man wearing a twin-feathered crown. Four additional priests walked alongside, cooling the god with ostrich-feather fans. A second barque followed, not as magnificent but just as lovely, on which rode the gilded image of the lady Hathor in her human form, carried in her open shrine. She was accompanied by two fan-bearers and followed by seven women wearing long white sheaths and broad collars, each shaking a sistrum, a ceremonial rattle bearing the effigy of the goddess.

  Bak scanned the shoreline, the harbor, the river, and found nothing out of order. But the evidence of his eyes could not drive away his anxiety. Inyotef was lurking somewhere nearby; he felt it deep inside.

  The lead priests walked up the gangplank of the traveling ship on the downstream side of the quay. Kenamon, the younger priest, and the gods moved past the warship in slow and stately splendor. Behind them, ten men, shaven and purified for the occasion, carried the gilded, inlaid, and painted chests filled with ritual equipment and the god's clothing.

  Next came a herald, his trumpet blaring above the shouts of the spectators, his cheeks puffed out, his face scarlet with the effort of blowing the instrument. The first contingent of Kushites marched onto the quay behind him: forty spearmen clad in leather kilts and wearing long feathers in hair dyed odd shades of red and yellow. Behind them, mounted on tall poles, waved twenty or so white-and-red pennants that Bak knew preceded Commander Woser and King Amon-Psaro.

  The cheerful flags brought dread to his heart. He knew as well as he knew his own name that every vessel in the harbor had been searched, eve
ry man vouched for, yet he was equally certain Inyotef was somewhere nearby, waiting. Oblivious to the captain beside him and the seamen lining the rail, he climbed onto the forecastle for an overall view.

  In the lower city, the spectators' shouts had increased in volume, losing awe in favor of enthusiasm, telling him the royal party had gone by and the garrison troops were parading past their families. The merchant ships moored at the southern quay showed no sign of activity, but the smaller boats were preparing to move out. The moment the first traveling ship set sail, they would scoot across the harbor like a flock of eager ducks.

  Bak's eyes leaped to the end of the southern quay, and he muttered a curse. Two soldiers stood there, one pointing toward a small'skiff floating just out of reach. Barely more than a rowboat, its mast lowered with the masthead resting on the prow, it was drifting in the general direction of the stronger current outside the harbor, where it would be swept downstream into the path of the traveling ships. Bak cursed again, his thoughts locked on InyotePS But the vessel floated too high in the water to carry the weight of a man.

  The soldiers stared at the craft, talking, probably deciding if it was worth the effort of swimming out after it. One of the men shook his head, and the pair turned around to walk back along the quay. The vessel must truly be empty and adrift, Bak told himself, but an image took form in his thoughts: the pilot clinging to the outside of the boat, guiding it through the water unseen.