Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  I returned to Waset, a man representing my people to the royal house.”

  A young woman with freckles and fuzzy red hair strolled into the courtyard. She wore a girdle similar to that of the seated girl and carried a lute. She walked up behind the prince, kissed him under the ear, and slumped down beside his right leg.

  “You know what he’s come for,” Nofery grumbled.

  “Of course. It’s important that I know of every act or deed that could have any impact on the farms and villages for which I’m responsible.” Baket-Amon placed a date be tween his lips, leaned forward, and kissed the girl with the lute, passing the sweet fruit into her mouth. “Let me assure you, I feel strong resentment for the woman who sent him here. My well-being and that of my people depends upon the army of Kemet occupying the fortresses along the Belly of Stones.”

  “Will you plead our case to him?” Bak rubbed his arms, trying to warm them. “Commandant Thuty can say nothing more. He’s too angry to speak with patience and guile. But a word or two from you, a man Amonked knows and no doubt respects, might convince him of a truth he would otherwise fail to see.”

  Baket-Amon’s expression changed, not in any definable way but in a new stillness of his body and a dimming of the light in his smile. “I fear I can do nothing. Amonked and I…” His eyes darted toward a rear door, where two naked young women clung together in a seductive pose, beckoning him. He stood up, looking like a man saved from a charging hippopotamus. “I wish I could help. Indeed I do. For my sake as well as yours. But I cannot, I will not get down on my knees before him and touch my forehead to the floor.”

  He rushed out of the courtyard. The women seated on the floor exchanged a startled look, scrambled up, and hur ried after him.

  Bak snapped out an oath. “How can he be so stubborn?

  Can he not swallow his pride? Would it not be more ra tional to approach a man he knows and convince him of the truth rather than turn his back on his allies and his people?”

  “He’s unpredictable, Bak. You know he is.” Nofery handed him a fresh jar of beer. “He may yet speak with

  Amonked. He may think over your plea and realize he must.”

  “I’ll offer a prayer to the lord Amon before I go to my sleeping pallet, and another to the lord Horus of Buhen.”

  Bak stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and eyed the door through which the prince had disappeared. “I’ve never seen a man so popular with your women. The appeal can’t be his lofty title. No other local prince who patronizes this place of business receives so much attention.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “I’ve seen none of my girls turn you down when you’ve seen fit to lie with them.”

  “They don’t come to me in vast numbers, as they do him.” Bak paused, grinned. “I thank the lord Amon.”

  She laughed, but quickly sobered as the sweet, melodious sounds of harp, lute, and oboe filled the air, coming from the rear of the house where Baket-Amon had fled. “They tell me he’s a brilliant lover, and never rough like some men are.”

  Bak barely heard. His thoughts had returned to the prince’s refusal to speak with Amonked. Something had happened between them. Something unpleasant, without doubt. Still, how could Baket-Amon allow pride to jeop ardize the well-being of every man, woman, and child who dwelt along the Belly of Stones?

  Chapter Four

  “Amonked wants you to accompany him when he inspects

  Buhen?” Nebwa gave a cynical laugh. “May the gods be blessed!”

  “Isn’t he afraid you’ll unduly influence him?” Bak asked.

  “I’m to guide, not instruct. So he said.” Thuty curled his lip in disgust. “He suggested I bring along a couple of sen ior officers. You two must come, and I’ll select two or three others, as well.”

  Bak exchanged a quick glance with Nebwa. They both understood that by taking along more men than specified,

  Thuty meant to see how far he could push Amonked.

  “How many troops occupy this garrison when it’s fully manned?” Amonked asked.

  “The optimum number would be about a thousand.”

  Thuty paused outside the door of a two-story structure so large it filled the building block, a building that housed troops, the company offices, and services. The members of the inspection party-Lieutenant Horhotep, Sennefer,

  Nebwa, Bak, and three additional officers of Buhen closed ranks around him and Amonked. All five men se lected by the commandant had been accepted with no word of complaint from the inspector. “I’ve heard that several hundred more were posted here when first the fortress was built, but those days are long past. Now we have around four hundred.”

  “Would that number be sufficient should the fortress be attacked or besieged?”

  A good question, Bak thought. Interesting. Especially coming from the storekeeper of Amon, a man who knows nothing of the needs of war.

  “We’d have to fall back from the outer wall, abandoning the outer city and animal paddocks, but I believe we could hold the citadel as long as our supplies lasted.” Thuty added, the words grudging but honest, “We’d like to be lieve we’ve tamed this wild land to a point where we won’t be attacked.”

  Lest Amonked take the final statement at face value and use it for his own purposes, Bak added quickly, “It’s easy enough to draw together sufficient men to fall upon a car avan spread across the desert or to raid vulnerable farms and hamlets, but quite another to muster a large enough force to attack a fully manned walled city.”

  The inspector’s eyes rested on Bak for an instant, his thoughts hidden behind an expressionless mask. A mask carefully molded, Bak suspected, by a lifetime of tiptoeing among those who held the reins of power.

  Thuty led the party into the building.

  They walked corridor after corridor, passing room after room. Amonked paused now and again to ask a question, which Thuty answered, or simply to watch a man at work.

  Many of the soldiers were on the practice field outside the walls of the fortress. Those who remained went on with their tasks, studiously ignoring the intruders. As far as Bak could tell, the inspector missed nothing, yet his expression throughout was noncommittal, registering neither approval nor disapproval. Nor did he react in any way to the men’s silence, their excessive concentration on their tasks.

  Back on the street, the inspector asked, “How many men have taken local women as wives and now call Wawat their home?”

  Thuty looked as surprised by the question as Bak was.

  What difference would numbers make if the army was torn from the Belly of Stones? Or was Amonked in fact con cerned about all those who had made this land their home?

  “A hundred and fifty, maybe more, dwell in the oasis across the river. More than two thousand live along the river between here and Semna.”

  “I see.” Amonked raised his head, sniffing the air. The odor of baking bread wafted from a doorway brightly lit by the sun. “Ah, the cooking area. If that bread tastes as good as it smells, we must share a loaf.”

  Obediently, Thuty headed toward the kitchen. Amonked stopped outside the door to look back at the barracks build ing.

  “Impressive,” he said. “The structure is in excellent con dition, Commandant, and the space inside could not be bet ter arranged for more efficient use.” He nodded, smiled.

  “Yes, it could be converted to a warehouse quite easily.”

  “On the final day of every week, each commander of the fortresses along the Belly of Stones selects the most im portant information from his daybook and compiles a re port.” Thuty, his stance stiff and remote, removed a scroll at random from a wooden shelf built against the wall. He broke the seal, untied the cord that bound it, unrolled a segment half the length of his arm, and held it out for

  Amonked to see. “He sends this compilation to me by cour ier.” His voice was as cold and distant as his manner.

  Bak recognized the loose, flowing scrawl of the com mander of the fortress of Semna. The report was at lea
st a month old and probably three times the length of the visible segment. Amonked and Horhotep moved in close to get a better look.

  Before they could possibly read the few visible entries,

  Thuty rolled the document into a tight cylinder and handed it to a scribe for refiling. “After I’ve read them all and passed them by my senior staff, I give them to the chief scribe, Kha.”

  He walked the length of the long, narrow room, followed by his retinue. Two rows of ten scribes each sat cross legged on the floor, facing Kha. Their heads were bowed over open scrolls, their reed pens scratching across the pa pyrus in a pretense of work, a slim excuse for ignoring their exalted visitor.

  The commandant stopped before the chief scribe, an ag ing, bald man who sat on a thick linen pad facing his min ions. “Kha excerpts major occurrences from the various garrison reports and compiles them in a new document. We send that to the viceroy, who forwards it on to the vizier in Waset.” The elderly man handed over a slender roll of papyrus, which Thuty unrolled. The scroll was less than a cubit in length, the report two narrow columns filling half the available space. “As you can see, it’s short and concise, containing only items of major import.”

  Horhotep caught hold of the corner of the scroll. “May

  I?” His voice was sharp, more a demand than a question.

  Anger darkened Thuty’s face. Bak, fearing the comman dant’s tight control would snap, slapped hard at the back of his neck and at the same time took a quick step forward and pivoted, striking Horhotep’s head with his elbow.

  The adviser loosed his grip on the scroll and swung around. “How dare you strike me!”

  Bak rubbed his neck, forced a rueful smile. “Something bit me. An insect. I meant no harm.”

  Nebwa, quick to understand, flicked a spot from his kilt.

  “Fleas. They’re vicious this time of year.”

  “I’ve noticed a good number of the pests in the dwelling in which we’re staying,” Amonked said. “I assumed the former inhabitants had pets, but perhaps all of Buhen is infested.” With a distasteful grimace, he took the scroll from Thuty. “Shall we get on with our task?” and he began to read.

  Horhotep gave Bak a mean glare, then turned his attention to the document. Seeing the pair distracted, Nebwa pretended to wipe his brow. Thuty, very much aware of how close he had come to losing his temper, threw Bak a quick look of gratitude. A scribe near the back of the room scratched his thigh, setting off a rustling of kilts and a sub dued stir that sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter.

  Amonked’s eyes darted toward the seated men and back to the scroll, a bland look masking his thoughts.

  “This report contains the barest of details.” Horhotep tapped the scroll with a finger and sniffed his disdain. “If the scrolls of each of the ten garrison commanders include as much information as their length indicates, most of what occurs is omitted here. No wonder officials in Waset know so little of the activities along the Belly of Stones.”

  “Perhaps nothing of significance occurs,” Amonked said,

  “as our sovereign believes.”

  Bak muttered an oath. Their very efficiency was speaking against them.

  “This building serves as our treasury. Many of the items stored here are products of the land of Kush, but the ma jority have traveled from farther south, from strange and exotic lands few men from Kemet have seen.”

  Thuty paused in the anteroom, waiting for the two guards to light torches so the inspection party could see into the darkest corners. He and his entourage filled the small space, crowding the two scribes, who feigned indifference to their lofty visitors. “About half what you see was obtained through trade. Roughly a quarter was given as tribute to our sovereign, offered by tribal princes and kings who wish to acknowledge her friendship with gifts. The remaining quarter…”

  “Commandant Thuty.” Amonked’s voice held an edge of irritation. “I’ve been storekeeper of Amon for almost ten years. I’m fully aware of the source of all the valuable and exotic items that pass through the land of Wawat.”

  Thuty crossed the threshold and followed a guard into a large room. If the reproach troubled him, he gave no sign.

  “The items you see here will remain until suitable trans portation and security can be guaranteed. They’re reason ably safe within the walls of Buhen, but we must take many additional precautions to protect them during the long voy age north.”

  The remainder of the party followed, with the second guard bringing up the rear, keeping a close eye on the vis itors. Flickering torchlight fell on baskets and jars and sacks and woven reed chests stacked in rows, sometimes precar iously high. The contents of each jar was scrawled across its shoulder or scratched into its dried mud plug, while baked clay tags identified the products inside the less solid containers. The air was heavy with the odors of herbs and spices, rare woods, aromatic oils, dust, and a musty smell

  Bak suspected was a long-dead mouse.

  “In addition to trade goods and tribute,” Thuty droned on, “we also keep here the more valuable items paid as tolls by individuals crossing the frontier on legitimate busi ness and items of worth confiscated from smugglers and other wrongdoers.”

  Amonked walked along the narrow aisles, peering at tags, poking and prodding lumpy sacks, sniffing packets wrapped in linen or papyrus or leaves. Horhotep tried to emulate his superior, but could not shut out the wearisome lecture. He glanced often at Thuty, obviously suspicious the commandant was mocking them. Sennefer remained near the entry, taking in everything, saying nothing, wearing a good-humored smile that might or might not have been sincere.

  When the inspector indicated he was ready to move on,

  Thuty signaled a guard to precede them to the next room.

  Larger than the first, it had a ceiling supported on two col umns. Light was admitted through high, narrow windows secured by stone grills. This was the safest room in the treasury, its contents the most valuable. Jars containing pre cious oils, myrrh, and incense. Baskets laden with chunks of stone destined to be worked into royal jewelry. Piles of skins taken from lions and leopards and long-haired mon keys. Ostrich eggs and feathers.

  Amonked, his hands clasped behind his back, wandered along the aisles with the same relish as before. At the far end of the room, he stopped before six elephant tusks lean ing pointed-end-up in a corner. “Magnificent.” He glanced at Bak. “Were you not the man who laid hands on the vile criminals who were smuggling tusks downriver?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bak was surprised by the question, and by the fact that Amonked would have heard of his exploit.

  Horhotep’s head snapped around.

  “Lieutenant Bak is a fine officer,” Thuty said, forgetting for a moment the monotone. “We’re fortunate to have him at Buhen.”

  “Indeed.” Amonked walked to a small wooden enclosure built into the corner of the room. The solid wood door was closed. A dried-mud seal affixed to the latch verified its integrity. “What have we here?”

  Irritated by the quick dismissal, Thuty signaled the guard, who broke the seal, released the latch, and swung the door wide. Gold glittered in the torchlight. Small rec tangular bars stacked in rows. Thick bracelet-sized rings collected on stout wooden rods. Rough kernels, formed when molten gold was slowly poured into water, mounded in baskets. Pottery cones filled with gold dust.

  A smile spread across Amonked’s face. “Most impres sive. Would that Maatkare Hatshepsut could be here to see so magnificent a display in its native land. No doubt one day, when I can assure her she’ll suffer no harm…”

  “One day soon, I’ll wager.” Horhotep flashed the officers from Buhen a look of satisfaction that reminded Bak of a jackal watching a poor family place a deceased relative’s body in a too-shallow grave in the soft desert sand.

  “How did the inspection go?” Baket-Amon asked.

  Bak gave him a bleak look. “Let me put it this way: Throughout the day I could imagine Amonked rubbing his hands with delight at so comfort
able a place to rest and relax in a land flowing with the bounties of trade.”

  The prince, who had been examining a newly repaired rudder on his traveling ship, turned his back to the stern to study Bak’s face. “That bad. I see.”

  Noting the objects on deck, baskets and bundles securely tied down and five stalls spread with fresh hay, Bak asked,

  “You’re preparing to leave Buhen?”

  “Tomorrow at first light we sail north to Ma’am. My firstborn son, my heir, will celebrate his eighth year in four days’ time. I wish to be there.” Baket-Amon flung a per functory smile at the two sailors who had repaired the rud der. “Well done. You’re free to go into the city, but take care how much beer you drink. You must bring the cows from the paddocks at daybreak.”

  The men hurried away, arguing about the merits of the several houses of pleasure in Buhen. Nofery’s apparently ranked high in their esteem.

  “I’m taking ten cows to Ma’am,” Baket-Amon explained.

  “My tribute to Maatkare Hatshepsut. Another ship will carry them north from there.” As a native prince, he was obliged to send gifts to the sovereign of Kemet and to pay court to her as would any subject of note.

  Bak walked to the rail and stared out across the water.

  Specks of gold and orange and red danced on the swells, a shattered reflection of a sky painted bright by the setting sun. “I’ve come again to ask if you’ll speak with Amon ked.”

  “Would that I could, Bak, but I can’t.” Baket-Amon crossed the deck to stand beside him. He looked sincerely distressed, but adamant. “Now more than ever…” He paused, frowned at the water splashing against the hull.

  “Now that I’ve seen…” A sharp laugh. “Now that my past has come back to taunt me.” He shook his head. “No, I will not, I cannot speak with Amonked.”

  “But, sir…” Bak said, planning to beg if necessary.

  “I’d leave Buhen today if I could,” the prince said, cut ting him short, “but the hour is late and neither my men nor I are so foolhardy as to sail through the night.”