by Lauren Haney
Looking closer at the man beside him, Bak saw that his face was drawn, his manner distracted. He clasped tightly the pendant of the ram-headed Amon, as if holding the golden image would give him strength. Whatever had oc curred between him and Amonked must be serious indeed.
As much as Bak hated to give up, he saw that to continue his plea would be fruitless.
Baket-Amon stiffened his spine, pulled his head back, and forced a smile. “I feel greatly in need of diversion. Will
I see you at Nofery’s place of business this evening?”
Bak shook his head. “Like you, Amonked sails tomor row, though in a different direction. So far, the people of this garrison have behaved themselves, pretending to ignore him and his party when in fact they’re seething with anger.
Neither my men nor I dare rest easy until they’re gone.”
“There they go, my friend, and good riddance.”
“My feeling exactly, Imsiba.” Leaning against the para pet that edged the terrace running along the base of the fortress wall, Bak watched the distant flotilla sailing upriver toward the fortress of Kor. With the hulls too low to see, the rectangular sails, swollen by the northerly breeze, looked like birds skimming the water’s surface in the blue morning haze. “I’d be happier if they were sailing north to
Kemet.”
Imsiba broke a chunk of hard bread from the loaf he and
Bak were sharing and dunked it into a bowl of goat’s milk.
“If only Amonked had taken the commandant with him. At least we’d have some reassurance that all might go well.”
“After the inspection, he had nothing but praise for all he saw here. For a short while, I dared hope he was so impressed he’d think Thuty’s presence necessary.” Bak, dipping his bread to soften it, added in a bitter voice, “How wrong I was.”
“This fortress is well-run, the best I’ve ever seen.”
Bak took a bite, testing for hardness. “Lieutenant Hor hotep, oozing honeyed words, reminded Amonked that the warrior kings whose blood he and our sovereign share re built the fortress after centuries of neglect and established the rules by which it’s run.” He popped the soggy chunk into his mouth, ate, and licked the milk from his fingers.
“He made it sound as if anything accomplished since that long ago time is of minor significance.”
“Amonked allowed a glib tongue to influence him?”
Bak shrugged. “I spent the whole day trying to under stand what sways that man. I failed utterly.”
Tearing another piece of bread from the loaf, he scanned the harbor. The central and southern quays stood empty, awaiting the return of Amonked’s flotilla. No surprise there.
But he was surprised at seeing Baket-Amon’s traveling ship still moored at the northern quay. A small herd of tan short horned cows filled the stalls. The ship’s master stood on deck near the gangplank, looking toward the fortress gate; the helmsman sat on the edge of the forecastle; and the crew meandered around the deck, trying to look busy. The vessel was ready to sail, the crew clearly awaiting the prince. Perhaps he was detained, Bak thought, by a bevy of young women at Nofery’s house of pleasure.
“Lieutenant Horhotep sounds a complete fool.” Imsiba glanced at a crow landing on the parapet a dozen paces away, eyeing the bread, squawking. “Does he not know of the commandant’s close friendship with Viceroy Inebny?”
Bak soaked more bread, pulled it from the milk, and ducked backward, saving his kilt from the dripping white liquid. “I doubt he believes anyone posted outside the cap ital is of any consequence. Including the viceroy.”
The Medjay stared dolefully at the departing vessels.
“Where do you think we’ll go, my friend, if go we must?”
He had asked the question Bak had asked himself time and time again. “Back to Waset? To Mennufer? To a re mote post on the northeastern frontier?” His gloom matched that of the sergeant’s. “I wish I could guess with authority, but I’m as much at a loss as you are.”
“I suppose we’ll all be sent our separate ways.” The words were spoken with the reluctance of one who fears the answer.
“Who’d think to keep us together? That’s not the army way.”
They ate in unhappy silence, watching the flotilla’s sails merge into the haze. The sunny terrace was warm after a cool night. The river was calm, its surface a sheet of brown ish water broken at times by a leaping fish. Ducks and geese swam around the empty quays, seeking food thrown over board by the departed sailors. Sitamon’s cargo ship had sailed north to Abu and a traveling ship had taken its space.
The sailors on board shouted across the quay at the men on Baket-Amon’s ship, their jokes vulgar, their laughter raucous.
“Do you remember the plans Commandant Nakht had for Buhen and Wawat?” Bak asked, recalling his first day within the fortress and his first conversation with the man who had preceded Thuty.
Imsiba gave his friend a surprised look. Bak seldom mentioned their earliest days on the frontier, when friend ships had been forged, love had come and gone, and they had begun to feel the fortress their home. “He wished to make Buhen into a thriving city, in which soldiers and craftsmen and traders could live in safety and contentment with their families. He wished the people of this land to live in peace and to prosper.”
“If Amonked deems the army useless, all Nakht hoped for will die.”
Regret filled the ensuing silence. Bak’s eyes strayed to ward the northern quay, and the prince’s troubled mien came back to him. Maybe all was not as it should be.
“Baket-Amon was determined to leave at first light. Let’s see what’s keeping him.” He threw the last of the bread at he crow, which hopped along the wall, head cocked, wary of the generosity.
Walking north along the terrace, Bak gave his friend a rueful look. “The thought of losing all Nakht hoped for bothers me exceedingly. The thought of leaving this place and the people I’ve come to love is almost more than I can bear.”
“I know, my friend. I, too, feel closer to Buhen than any other place, and closer to all those I’ve come to know.”
Hori burst through the northern gate, spotted them, and raced up the terrace to meet them. The chubby scribe’s face was flushed, his eyes alight with excitement. “Lieutenant
Bak! Come quickly! A man’s been found dead. Stabbed.
In the house where Amonked and his party were quar tered.”
Chapter Five
“Baket-Amon.” Bak stared, dismayed, at the body stuffed into a storage area under the mudbrick stairway that led to the roof. He had not yet seen the face, but no one could mistake that large, heavy form for anyone other than the prince.
“I fear so, sir.” Psuro, a thickset Medjay with a face scarred by some childhood disease, looked stricken. He had been in charge of the men guarding the house through the night.
Bak would not have been surprised if the inspector of the fortresses of Wawat had been slain, but Baket-Amon?
He had asked the prince to speak with Amonked and he had refused. Now here he was in Amonked’s house and he was dead. Had that plea for help brought about his death?
Imsiba cursed in his own tongue. “The gods have surely turned their backs to us. The prince’s power was slight, with Commandant Thuty sitting in the seat of authority, but he was beloved of his people. What manner of trouble this will cause, I can’t begin to guess.”
“Go tell Thuty of this murder,” Bak said, shaking off the guilt that stood in the way of clear thinking. “Warn him.
And then bring two men with a litter so they can carry the body to the house of death.”
As the big Medjay slipped out the door, Bak knelt for a closer look at the dead man. The floor-level closet in which the prince had been hidden was almost square, about two cubits to a side, and scarcely deep enough for his broad shoulders. Psuro had rolled up and tied the woven mat that had covered the opening when he found the body. Baket Amon was seated, arms hanging down, legs drawn close, cheek resting on his
knees, face turned away. He might have been sleeping-except for the blood that had drained onto the rush floormat beneath him, coloring a goodly por tion a dull reddish brown. Bending low, Bak glimpsed be tween the legs the bronze hilt of a dagger entangled by the chain of the gold pendant of the ram-headed Amon.
Back on his feet, he eyed the room, empty except for the mats that had been spread over the floor in preparation for
Amonked’s arrival. The chamber shared a wall with a room the concubine had occupied; the vague scent of perfume hung in the air, not quite masking the metallic odor of blood. The room opened onto the main hallway near the street door. Not directly connected to any other room, this chamber had not appealed to Amonked, who had left it unfurnished and empty. Thus the men who had carried off
Amonked’s belongings had not found the prince hidden in the storage space. Anyone could have entered from outside without passing through any other portion of the house, just as anyone from inside could have slipped into the room unseen.
He studied the encrustation of blood on the mat beneath the dead man and stains that spilled over two edges. Certain the prince, too heavy to move far, had been slain close by, he raised the mat nearest the body. A tiny splash of rusty brown led him to the next mat to the right. Psuro, drawing in a long, unhappy breath, lifted another mat and another, revealing a large, irregular oval discolored by blood, marked in the weave pattern of the mats that had covered it.
Bak looked again at the body. He pictured Baket-Amon as he had last seen him, with two pretty young women seated at his feet and two more awaiting him, offering music and joy. A man who had lived life at its fullest, mowed down in his prime. Shoving away the sadness, the regret, he said, “Let’s pull him out of there, Psuro.”
The mat slid with relative ease across the plastered floor, soon freeing the body from the space in which it had been confined. For some inexplicable reason, it remained upright in its seated position. Bak placed a hand under the chin and turned the head to reveal the face. Baket-Amon, as ex pected. The body was cool, but not yet clammy, nor had it had time to grow rigid. He could not be sure, but he guessed death had occurred sometime around daybreak.
Bak gently laid the prince on the floor. Psuro straight ened out the legs without being asked, a measure of the distress he felt at having failed in his duty. The dagger protruded from the dead man’s lower chest. It angled up ward, piercing the heart with the single thrust. The broad collar, bracelets, anklets, and especially the pendant were finely crafted and of sufficient value to proclaim theft as an unlikely reason for the slaying.
Faced with a task he abhorred, Bak swallowed hard, took hold of the dagger, and pulled it free. The bronze blade was narrow and pointed, about the length of a man’s hand. The hilt, also of bronze, had been slightly roughened to provide a secure grip. The dagger was simple and unadorned, not of military issue but as easily come by. He had seen many similar weapons offered in the markets of Mennufer and
Waset and Abu.
He laid the dagger beside the body, stood erect, and fo cused on Psuro. The Medjay, one of his best and most dependable men, stood stiff and straight, tense, awaiting an interrogation he obviously dreaded.
Bak eyed the stocky policeman, his demeanor stern.
“How long ago did Baket-Amon come to this house?”
“I can’t say for a fact,” Psuro admitted, shame-faced.
“None of us saw him enter.”
“If each and every guard was at his assigned post, how could he possibly have escaped notice?”
The Medjay stared straight ahead. “We were obliged to leave our posts, sir.”
Bak gave him an incredulous look. “All of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you have an explanation. A good one.” Bak’s grim expression, his severe tone promised dire conse quences if no suitable reason was offered.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Psuro licked his lips, shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“At break of day, Amonked’s sailors began to carry away the furnishings in this house, taking what was his back to his ship. Eight or ten youths-apprentices, they were, on the way to their masters’ workshops-came upon them a block down the street. They began pelting them with stones.
The sailors were laden with objects of value they had no choice but to protect. Rather than allow a fight to break out, giving both Amonked and the people of this garrison ad ditional reason for anger, we went to their aid.” The Medjay paused, cleared his throat. “It was then, I believe, that the prince entered the house.”
And soon after, he was slain, Bak thought. “How long were you away from your posts?”
“A few moments at most.” Psuro saw the doubt on Bak’s face and hastened to be more exact. “I raced full-tilt down the stairs and out onto the street, where I found the others already gathering. As soon as the youths saw us coming and realized our purpose, they ran. I sent Kasaya after them to make sure they wouldn’t return, and the rest of us went back to our posts.”
Psuro was not a man to lie or exaggerate, so Bak knew his tale was true and unembellished. The house had indeed been unobserved for only a short while. Too short, he sus pected, for Baket-Amon to enter unseen, and for someone else to follow him inside, stab him, stuff his body into the storage area, and leave the house unnoticed. A theory that did not include time for the angry words that most likely preceded the murder. Some member of the inspection party had slain the prince, he felt sure.
But why? Could the prince have entered the building for some reason other than to beseech Amonked to keep the army on the frontier? Some reason related to the past that had troubled him so?
He turned his thoughts back to Psuro. The knowledge that the Medjays had not strayed for long was no excuse.
They should not have lowered their guard. “You had no idea Baket-Amon was inside?”
“None, sir.”
“What of the people in Amonked’s party?” Not ready to relent, he remained stern. “Were they all in the dwelling when the fight occurred up the street?”
“Yes, sir. Probably because of the early hour. The streets were fairly dark, uninviting to people who have limited knowledge of this city.”
“And later?”
“It was chaos, sir, complete chaos.” Psuro shook his head in wonder. “They were milling around all over the place.
Going into and out of the house, following the sailors down the street to see if any precious belonging had been dam aged in the fight, or to retrieve something they’d already packed and couldn’t live without until they boarded their ship, or to pack something they’d forgotten to stow in a chest or basket.”
Bak eyed the Medjay critically. “You did what you thought best, Psuro, and I’ll not fault you for that. You clearly had no choice but to go to the sailors’ aid. However, you should’ve left at least one man at his post to watch over the house.”
Psuro, as transparent as a pool of clear water, failed to hide his shame. “I know I erred, sir. I’ll never let it happen again.”
“After Baket-Amon is taken away, you may go back to the barracks and get some sleep, you and the others who were posted here through the night. First, tell them what’s happened and pledge their silence. It’s not up to us to add fuel to the rumors which will all too soon spread throughout
Buhen and beyond.”
“Yes, sir.” Psuro swung around, openly relieved his or deal was over, and hurried from the room.
Bak stood over the body, looking at the remains of a man who had two days before called him a friend. He of fered a silent prayer to the lady Maat that Commandant
Thuty would allow him to pursue the slayer and snare him-no matter who or how lofty the killer proved to be.
“I don’t care what Amonked says, Lieutenant.” Thuty paced the length of the courtyard outside his private recep tion room, swung around, stalked back in the opposite di rection. Struck at an angle by the midmorning sun,
the open court lay half in shadow, half in brightness, emphasizing the play of his powerful muscles. “He and his party must either return to Buhen, or you must travel upriver with them. The prince was slain in the house they occupied, and someone inside that house took his life.”
Bak, seated on the floor beside a loom on which was stretched a length of white linen, was delighted with
Thuty’s decision that he investigate the murder, although he did not know what else the commandant could in all good conscience do.
“He’ll not come back to Buhen.” Nebwa rearranged a twig nestled in the corner of his mouth. “That’d be too much like an admission that someone he holds close is guilty of wrongdoing.” The troop captain occupied a low stool in the sunny space between two potted acacias.
The court, like the rest of Thuty’s private quarters, was cluttered with toys and reminders of household tasks. A couple of spindles and the loom, a bowl filled with peas that needed shelling, a tunic with a partly mended tear, strips of beef drying on a line stretched overhead. Four black puppies played around a large bowl of water on which floated a half-dozen blue lilies. Their sweet scent vied with the aromas of baking bread and roasting lamb, setting Bak’s stomach to growling.
“Nor will he wish to delay a task ordered by our sov ereign,” Thuty grumbled. “A small matter of murder won’t halt his wretched inspection.”
“He’ll claim-with good reason-that my men allowed their attention to stray.” Bak raised a knee and wrapped his arm around his leg. “I’ll wager he’ll say someone resentful of the inspection entered the dwelling and slew the first man he came upon. A resident of Buhen or someone pass ing through.”
Nebwa snorted. “Baket-Amon? A man known and liked throughout Wawat?”
Thuty jerked a stool away from the wall, swept three leather balls onto the floor, and sat down. “I don’t care what the swine claims. I’m giving you unlimited authority to investigate, and I’ll send a courier to Ma’am with a letter to the viceroy, seeking support I’m sure he’ll give.”
