by Lauren Haney
“You don’t know Hor-pen-Deshret,” Nebwa growled.
“Greed drives him, not good sense. If he concludes this caravan is worth attacking-and he will-he’ll think of to day’s gain, not tomorrow’s.”
The men’s concern was contagious, infecting Bak. “What of the people along the river? Will they stand with us if we’re attacked? He’s their foe as well as ours.”
Nebwa shrugged. “They fear him greatly and they mis 172
Lauren Haney trust Amonked. To them, one evil may be no better than another.”
Bak muttered a curse. This was the longest stretch be tween fortresses, a three-day march across the open desert to Askut. He and Nebwa, the two sergeants, and twenty archers could easily hold off fifty or so men attacking en masse. But random attacks along the length of a moving caravan or an attack by a large party would be impossible to fight off. Unless… “Go find Lieutenant Merymose and
Sergeant Dedu. Those fifty guards must be trained to be soldiers immediately.”
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t see Hor-pen-Deshret among them.” Bak stared off across the desert at the half-dozen tribesmen who had kept pace with the caravan since they had broken camp at first light.
“Nor do I.” Nebwa, standing with him on a tall granite monolith that rose above the rolling sandhills, eyed the dis tant figures, his face grim. “He’s close by, though. I can feel him.”
“Strange that none of the desert patrols from Iken noticed any unusual movement over the last few days.”
“I’ll wager the swine came from straight out of the desert.”
Bak turned around to look at the long line of donkeys plodding south along the trail. The gentle morning breeze, its chill banished by the sun, was too weak to account for the clear blue sky above the caravan. The sand here was coarse and heavy, almost free of dust. Isolated granite ridges and knobs rose out of a seemingly endless blanket of gold, with long dunes trailing off from their downwind side.
He was worried. By crossing this segment of desert, avoiding the long bend in the river, they were shaving al most two days off their journey. But they had to pay for the shorter passage. The river would be more than an hour’s walk away for a man in a hurry, a march from dawn to dusk for the heavily burdened donkeys. Forced to carry water, each animal was laden with the maximum it could manage, slowing the caravan as a whole while at the same time saving thousands upon thousands of steps.
Taking a final, long look at the tribesmen, he said, “We must assume those men are an advanced guard, keeping an eye on our progress while Hor-pen-Deshret’s fighting force comes from farther afield. Two questions arise: How large will that force be? How long will it take to reach us?”
“He must know we’ve no intention of traveling beyond
Semna, and he’ll want to attack well before we get there.
Other than Buhen, it’s the only garrison with a full com plement of troops.” Nebwa climbed down the side of the monolith, taking care where he placed his feet on the eroded stone. “As for how many men he’s gathered, only the lord Set knows. He’s never been known to risk an attack unprepared.”
“This long stretch of open desert looks to me a good place to strike.”
“I can think of no better.” Nebwa eyed the distant men, his face dour. “I imagine he came yesterday to look us over, to see for himself the riches we’re carrying and the number of men he’ll have to face. If he liked what he saw… And how could he not?… he’ll think the gain worth the risk.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, making it look more out of control than usual. “Let’s hope he’s decided he needs more men and won’t strike until they arrive. He’ll have seen fifty spearmen and twenty archers, but he’d have no way of knowing the spearmen lack training in the arts of war.”
Bak followed him off the protuberance, and the pair set out across the sand, heading toward the caravan. “Last night’s session went better than I expected. If enthusiasm is any measure of success, Merymose will one day be a general. The guards who report to him, as soft as their lives have been in the capital, surprised me with their willingness to learn.”
“They’d better show enthusiasm. Their lives may depend on it.” A sudden thought banished the severity from
Nebwa’s face and he grinned. “Do you remember what
Horhotep said yesterday, before we left Iken, about desert raiders?”
Bak altered his voice slightly and quoted the adviser word for word: “ ‘I’m convinced the raiding tribesmen we’ve heard so much about are mere figments of the imag ination.’ ”
“I wonder what he thinks now.”
“He won’t admit he’s erred until he has to.”
“Did you notice him standing in the shadows last night, watching us school the guards?”
“I feared for a while he’d order Merymose away, but he didn’t say a word.”
“I’ll wager Amonked got an earful.”
Bak’s laugh was short and humorless. “I’ve no experi ence training spearmen, as you have, but after we finished last night, I went to my sleeping place satisfied. Another few hours of schooling may not give the men the skill of seasoned troops, but I felt they’d be able to hold their own against tribesmen untrained in the finer points of warfare.”
“They’ll do all right with the spear,” Nebwa admitted,
“but they need replacement weapons should they lose or break those they have-and they’ll need weapons more suited to hand-to-hand combat: scimitars, maces, axes, slings.”
Bak’s expression turned dubious. “Not even the lord
Amon could supply those. This is a civilian caravan, not one meant to support an army.”
Nebwa scowled, taking the words to heart. “I must take an inventory, learn which of the drovers was once a soldier, who brought arms along and who didn’t. Better to know the worst from the start than to be surprised too late.”
The caravan moved on through the morning, with the tribesmen keeping pace off to the west. Bak walked the length of the long train of animals, speaking with drovers, archers, and Merymose’s guards, taking their measure in the face of a possible attack. Morale was good, thanks to a blind faith in Nebwa’s ability to see them trained and armed-and in Bak’s ability to lay hands on Baket-Amon’s slayer, thereby regaining at least partial goodwill of the people who dwelt along the river. And maybe their help, should help be needed.
Feeling like a man pinned against a wall, Bak thought long and hard about the prince’s death. He had been certain someone in the inspector’s party, someone who had been inside their quarters in Buhen, had slain Baket-Amon. Yet out here in the desert, living among them, asking questions that led nowhere, doubts plagued him. As no courier had come from Imsiba, the Medjay must also have come up empty-handed, contrary to Amonked’s initial prediction.
Small consolation, with the caravan being so barren of re sults.
Midday came and went and the animals plodded on.
“What do they do with the women they take?” Nefret stared at the small figures on the horizon, her eyes wide with fear. “Do they slay them outright? Or use them and throw them away? Or do they enslave them?”
Mesutu trudged behind her mistress’s carrying chair, her eyes straight ahead. Now and again she stumbled, as if her thoughts had fled to some far away and safer place.
The four porters holding Nefret aloft exchanged a sur reptitious look among themselves, its meaning betrayed when one man rolled his eyes skyward. Those walking a parallel course, carrying Thaneny’s chair, exchanged bored looks. They had apparently grown weary of the beautiful
Nefret and her many complaints. The third carrying chair,
Sennefer had left at Iken along with his four porters and many of his personal items. He could not have foreseen the arrival of Hor-pen-Deshret, but he had realized the value of traveling light.
“You’re taking the presence of those desert nomads far too seriously, mistress.” Lieutenant Horhotep, walking be side th
e young woman, had to know Bak could hear. “I’d not be surprised if they sneaked up in the night to steal, but would six men attack a caravan as large as this?” He answered the question with a derisive laugh.
Pawah, walking with Sennefer between the two carrying chairs, eyed the adviser doubtfully. “The drover Pashenuro thinks these men have come to seek out weak spots for a greater force soon to attack.”
Assuming his most sarcastic look, Horhotep said, “A drover? A frontier drover? Where did he train in the arts of war?”
Pawah’s face flamed. Eyes flashing defiance, he opened his mouth to retort. Thaneny touched him on the shoulder, drawing his attention, and shook his head to signal silence.
Sennefer put an arm around the youth’s shoulder and drew him off to the side of the caravan’s path. As Bak passed them, he heard the nobleman say in a voice too subdued for the adviser to hear, “Not everyone is blessed with common sense, Pawah, and those who aren’t seldom listen to those who are.”
“Hor-pen-Deshret.” Amonked, walking at Bak’s side, gave no sign that he had heard the exchange. “Before we left the capital, I read a few reports from Buhen, several of which mentioned the name. As I recall, Troop Captain
Nebwa fought alongside Commandant Nakht when the wretched man was defeated and when he and the remnants of his tribal army were chased far into the desert.”
Bak was no longer surprised that the inspector knew of past activities in the Belly of Stones. He was surprised by the depth of that knowledge. Amonked had clearly read more than “a few reports.” “Yes, sir. That’s why Nebwa’s worried, why he believes we must prepare to hold off a fighting force. He knows from experience what to expect.”
“You agree with him, I see.”
“Wholeheartedly.”
Horhotep dropped back to Amonked’s side and gave Bak a cool look. “Aren’t you raising an alarm when no alarm is warranted, Lieutenant? Or are you using the presence of a few pathetic nomads to sway our decision about the future of the fortresses along this segment of river?”
“Sir!” Bak swung around to face Amonked; his voice hardened. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, no man will be safe whether he be farmer, trader, drover, or royal envoy. Hor-pen-Deshret is a criminal, plain and sim ple, and he and his followers will have free rein.”
Amonked looked from Bak to Horhotep and back again, as if uncertain in which of the two he could place the most confidence.
“I suggest you speak with Nebwa, sir,” Bak said, “and with Seshu. He also has firsthand knowledge of the desert raiders.”
“Yes,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “Yes, I shall. I understand the troop captain is presently taking inventory of men and equipment. I’ll see him when he’s finished and has the time to speak freely.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened, sealing inside whatever comment he wished to make.
“Oh, Thaneny, stop patronizing me!” Nefret’s words cut through the air, sharp with impatience. “I can’t help being afraid! I don’t care what you say or what Horhotep says or
Amonked or anyone else, those men frighten me!”
“First it was the men along the river, and now this!”
Amonked expelled a long, irritated sigh. “I can understand her anxiety-I also am concerned-but will she never learn to suffer in silence?”
You don’t know how fortunate you are, Bak thought, that
Thaneny so often stands between you, taking the brunt of her wrath.
“She’ll not be content until we return to Kemet, that she’s made clear, but I suppose I must make an effort to soothe her.” Amonked looked at the concubine for a long time, as if he dreaded going to her. “Do you share your life with a woman, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re a most fortunate man.”
Bak walked back along the caravan in search of Captain
Minkheper. Horhotep had once made a passing comment he hoped the seaman could enlarge upon. He spotted the tall figure walking toward him about halfway along the line of donkeys.
“Captain Minkheper,” he said, smiling. “For one who’s supposed to be studying the river, you’re a long way into the desert.”
“Why I ever accepted this accursed mission, I’ll never know.” The seaman bent to shake the grit from a sandal.
“I’ve just talked with a drover, a former sailor who plied the waters in this area. He said, and I quote: ‘If our sov ereign thinks to build a canal through the Belly of Stones, she’s got more rocks in her head than the lord Hapi has deposited in the river between Semna and Buhen.’ ” He paused, letting a smile spread across his face. “Needless to say, she’ll hear nothing of the sort from me.”
Laughing, Bak fell in beside him. “I’ve heard she has a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t want to test the fact with a statement like that.”
Minkheper’s good spirits faded and he gave Bak a frus trated look. “I don’t doubt your drover, but I should be on the river, studying its flow firsthand.”
“Would that you could. I’d be by your side, enjoying a cool breeze and a swim. But until I lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I can’t guarantee that any man in the in spection party, walking alone and unguarded, would be safe from some irate farmer.”
“Can you guarantee our safety here, on this dry and bar ren trail?” Minkheper asked, looking pointedly toward the distant figures of the desert tribesmen.
“There are few absolutes in life, sir.”
A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “From what
I hear, Hor-pen-Deshret is more of a threat to the local farmers than Amonked is. I’d think they’d be grateful we’re here, deflecting his attention from them.”
“When we get closer to Askut and the river, I mean to speak with a man influential in this area. Perhaps I can convince him it would be to the people’s advantage to help us. Until then, we must wait. I dare not leave the caravan now lest the tribesmen attack out here in the open desert.
In that case, every man and weapon will be needed.”
“Can I help?”
“Speak with Nebwa. He can best tell you what needs to be done.” The captain nodded and swung around, but be fore he could get away, Bak said, “Someone suggested that
Baket-Amon patronized the houses of pleasure near the wa terfront in Waset. As you’re a seaman, I assume you visited the same establishments.”
Minkheper gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “I keep forgetting that I, along with everyone else in Amonked’s party, am suspected of murder. Each time you come to me with questions, you set me back on my heels.”
“If you’re innocent, you’ll take my queries in stride.”
Bak smiled, cutting the sting from the words.
“If?” Minkheper asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve surely no reason to believe I took his life.”
Bak ignored the implied question. He disliked having men fish for information while he was seining. “If you also frequent the harbor-side houses of pleasure, you must’ve bumped into him in one or another.”
“I’ve been happily wed for years, Lieutenant, and I have three concubines in various ports of call. I’ve no reason to look elsewhere for entertainment or pleasure.”
Bak recalled his recent conversation with Amonked and had trouble holding back a smile. The inspector would be appalled to learn of the captain’s many female attachments.
“You never stop for a beer or a game of chance?”
Minkheper laughed. “I must admit I’m sometimes tempted by a game of throwsticks or knucklebones, and at times I feel a need for masculine company. Not often, mind you. I get plenty of that aboard ship. But often enough that
I’ve heard tales of the prince’s exploits.”
“You never met up with him during one of those…”
Bak smiled. “… domestic lapses?”
The captain acknowledged the jest with a quick smile.
“If so, I didn’t know at the time who he was.” He paused, adde
d, “I moor my ship more often in Mennufer than in
Waset. Its harbor is bigger, its facilities better, and its trad ing establishments more lucrative. My wife dwells there with my firstborn son and three daughters I adore.”
To a man who sailed the Great Green Sea, a preference for the more northerly port made sense. “Did you ever hear of anything Baket-Amon did in Waset that could’ve brought about his death?”
“Jokes were made that he might one day run up against an enraged husband. Otherwise, I don’t recall a thing.”
An irate husband, Bak thought glumly. Once again, the only man who came close was Amonked. Why did all signs have to point to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin? Yet he seemed such an unlikely slayer, and Nefret as a reason for murder seemed more unlikely each time Bak saw them ar guing.
“Other than Lieutenant Bak and me, only Sergeant Dedu and his twenty archers are well-armed,” Nebwa reported,
“and they have a limited supply of arrows.”
His rigid stance and the edge to his voice betrayed his irritation. As the senior military officer in the caravan, he had begun to ready the men for a possible battle, giving no thought to Amonked. The inspector’s summons had caught him off guard, and nothing Bak said could convince him that he was not being called to account. As soon as the pavilion had been erected for the night, while still the don keys were being fed and watered and the men had begun to prepare their evening meal, an ill-humored Nebwa had accompanied Bak to the shelter.
“Lieutenant Merymose and his fifty guards have spears and shields,” Nebwa continued, “but they have no replace ments and no small arms, and not a man among them has had sufficient training. Of the twenty-eight drovers, sixteen are former army men, experienced with bow or spear, but only nine brought along a full complement of weapons.
One porter who brought a basket of herbs, potions, and salves has volunteered to tend any wounded we might have, and Thaneny has offered to help. The other porters have agreed to carry injured men to safety.”
Amonked, seated on his chair, his dog sprawled at his feet, gave Thaneny a look of surprised pleasure.
