Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

Bak stood with Nebwa, facing the inspector. Horhotep stood beside the chair, while the scribe, Sennefer, Min kheper, and Merymose stood off to the side. Nefret sat on a low stool in an opening in the hanging that divided the pavilion, with Pawah on the ground beside her, clasping his knees to his breast. Though the chill of night had not yet set in, a brazier burned fitfully, giving off the faint smell of dung not as thoroughly dry as it should be.

  “You failed to mention Lieutenant Horhotep,” Amonked pointed out.

  Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the adviser. His face re mained impassive. “I’ve yet to learn whether the lieutenant brought arms to Wawat, and I’ve no idea how skilled he is. Until proven otherwise, I must assume he’s no better trained in the arts of war than was Lieutenant Merymose.”

  “Are you implying I’m unfit?” Horhotep, an angry flush spreading up his neck and face, glared at the troop captain.

  “I’ll have no quarrel!” Amonked barely raised his voice, but his tone broached no argument.

  Nebwa went on, unperturbed. “As I’m certain you’ve noticed, Lieutenant Bak, Sergeant Dedu, and I have begun to train Merymose and his men. Given time, they’ll become worthy soldiers.”

  “I’d like to take part in that training, if I may,” Sennefer said. “I’m a fair shot with a bow, but my skills with the spear have declined. Other than the wrestling I learned as a youth, I know nothing of hand-to-hand combat.”

  Amonked gave his brother-in-law a nod of approval. “I suggest you follow his example, Lieutenant Horhotep. No matter how skilled you are, the practice can do you no harm.”

  “Yes, sir.” The vicious look the adviser shot Nebwa would have felled a lesser man.

  Bak staved off an urge to applaud.

  Nebwa blinked, betraying surprise, but kept his voice level, unemotional. “We can use our batons of office as clubs, as well as other lengths of wood too short to be used for spears, and we can make weapons from unlikely ob jects. For example, several drovers wear leather kilts, which can be cut up for use in slings and to make thongs needed for constructing maces and other small weapons. Spears can be made from poles such as the uprights that support the tents and this pavilion.”

  Nefret gasped, drawing Amonked’s attention and a scowl that discouraged complaint. If the inspector himself was dismayed by the suggestion, he betrayed no hint of the feel ing.

  “Captain Minkheper,” Nebwa went on, “has offered to show the men how to make these weapons and to see the work done in the best manner possible and at a rapid pace.”

  Amonked again nodded approval.

  Nebwa said no more, signaling the end of his report.

  The inspector broke the ensuing silence, asking the ques tion uppermost in each and every heart. “Should Hor-pen Deshret waylay us with a large force of men, could we hold them off?”

  “If they were to attack tomorrow while we’re on the move, I doubt we could. In a day or two, after we’re better prepared, I believe so. We’ll be close enough to Askut by then to summon help. The garrison there is small, but a few well-armed and trained men could make all the difference.”

  “What of the local people?” Nefret asked, drawing all eyes her way. “First they were visible day after day and now they’ve gone. Where are they? Lurking somewhere nearby so they, too, can set upon us?”

  “I doubt we’ll have to fight on two fronts,” Nebwa said.

  “While the people who dwell here don’t like what this in spection party stands for, they hate Hor-pen-Deshret and his ilk.”

  “They’ve been victimized by men like him each time the leaders of this land grew careless or weak,” Bak said, mak ing a point he wanted to be sure the inspector understood.

  “They may even decide to help us,” Nebwa said, “when

  Bak snares Baket-Amon’s slayer.”

  “And I will snare him.” The words, spoken firm and positive, were prompted, Bak felt sure, by some mischie vous god recently given a fine offering by Commandant

  Thuty, who took his success for granted.

  “Lieutenant Bak.” A man, speaking softly but firmly in his ear, caught him by the shoulder and shook him. “Wake up, sir. Wake up.”

  Bak rolled over, struggled into a sitting position, and shook his head to clear away the sleep. The night was black, the sliver of moon low, the stars miserly with their light. He could barely make out the individual hovering over him, a drover, he remembered. “What’s wrong?”

  “The donkeys are uneasy, sir. Seshu thinks we’ve an in truder. He asked me to summon you.”

  Muttering a curse, Bak hauled himself to his feet, found a spear and shield, and looked down at Nebwa and the archers, bundled up in heavy linen to stave off the chill, sleeping soundly. He thought of the man who had slipped in among them to steal their sandals. This might well be a similar prank. If he needed help, he decided, he could sum mon them later. With the drover in the lead, they headed across the encampment. Stepping over sleeping men and around braziers containing fuel long burned to ash, they wove a hurried path through the darkness. The cool night air seeped beneath Bak’s tunic, chilling him to the marrow.

  He soon heard the donkeys’ restless movement, their troubled snorts and blowing. The drover led him around the herd to where Seshu stood with Pashenuro and two drovers who had been assigned to keep watch overnight, scaring off predators, preventing the hobbled animals from stray ing, and keeping a wary eye open for desert marauders.

  With eyes growing more attuned to the feeble light, he saw that only the men on watch were armed.

  “There’s somebody in there, all right,” Seshu growled.

  “Have you spotted him?” Bak asked.

  A drover shook his head. “Too dark. Can’t see a thing.”

  “Are you sure it’s a man and not a jackal? Or maybe dogs?”

  “The pack that’s been following us wouldn’t bother the donkeys and they’d chase off any unfamiliar animals, mak ing a racket you could hear all the way to Buhen.”

  Pashenuro nodded agreement. “I’d guess a man, sir, probably one of the nomads who’ve been keeping pace with us.”

  Bak was not as sure as the sergeant was. The dogs had barked when the tribesmen had first appeared and had since stayed well clear of them, indicating a distinct lack of trust.

  Probably because, when catching the big yellow cur for their vile prank, they had frightened the rest of the pack.

  “If he’s not to run away in the dark, we’ll need torches.”

  As Pashenuro and a drover turned to go, he hastily added,

  “And, for the lord Amon’s sake, bring back some weapons.

  And shields.”

  The pair hurried off to do his bidding. While Seshu and the others remained where they stood, Bak walked in among the nearest animals, speaking quietly, trying to calm them, wishing fervently that he could see better. He could not understand why the dogs were silent. True, they were not trained to protect the caravan, but they were feral, and feral dogs barked at the least provocation.

  He turned to sidle between two donkeys, at the same time raising his shield so it would not get in his way. He heard a soft thunk and felt a faint vibration through the heavy cowhide. The donkey to his right snorted fear. Bak’s heart shot into his mouth. The white tunic, he thought, a target in the dark. He ducked low and lunged forward, hiding among the animals. Turning the shield, he looked at its face, at the arrow impaling the leather.

  “Get down!” he yelled. “The intruder’s using a bow!”

  “Lieutenant!” Pashenuro’s voice and the flicker of light played across the backs of the donkeys.

  A whisper of sound caught Bak’s ear. The animal nearest to him screamed and fell to its knees, an arrow planted deep in its thick neck. Bak tried to catch the rope halter to quiet it, but it flung its head and thrashed its legs, trying to escape the pain and the stench of its own blood, and it brayed non stop. The nearer animals panicked and tried to run in spite of their hobbles. Their wild lunges instilled fear into the rest of the
herd. The dogs, so quiet before, began to bark, their excitement triggered by the donkeys’ terror.

  “Get some men to quiet these animals,” Seshu yelled.

  “Lieutenant, are you all right?” Pashenuro called.

  Hating what he had to do, Bak jerked his dagger from its sheath and slit the throat of the wounded animal, si lencing it forever. Keeping low, he grabbed the halter of a jenny who, in her panic, was bucking madly, threatening to crush her foal. He led her and her baby away from the dead donkey, caught another animal and quieted it, and another and another. By the time he and the drovers had subdued the most panicked of the creatures, by the time

  Pashenuro joined him, torch in hand, he was certain the intruder had gotten away.

  Nebwa and the archers came running, awakened by the clamor. They went through the herd, searching for the in terloper, while the drovers quieted the animals and checked their well-being. As soon as they finished, Bak led a thor ough search of the encampment, soothing people who had awakened in alarm, but finding no one who did not belong.

  The dogs settled down among the stacks of equipment and supplies as if nothing of note had occurred.

  Nebwa assigned more guards to patrol the perimeter of the camp, and he, Bak, and the others returned to their sleeping places. Bak’s last thought before he slept was of the dogs, of their failure to respond, their silence, when what everyone believed was a desert nomad had crept up to the encampment and in among the donkeys.

  A nomad, a stranger from outside the camp. He was not so sure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You’re right about the dogs. They’d’ve reacted to a stranger.” Nebwa rubbed his chin, bristly from a failure to shave the previous evening. The training session had taken precedence over personal care. “Maybe someone in Amon ked’s party feels cornered.”

  “Why must the lord Amon be so whimsical?” Bak scowled at the long train of donkeys plodding south, the older animals sedate and well-behaved, the younger made frisky by the early morning chill, the fear in the night for gotten by one and all. “Thanks to him, I raised that shield when I did, but why, after saving me, did he allow the donkey to be a target, causing panic throughout the herd so the intruder could get away?”

  Yawning mightily, Nebwa stared off to the west, his eyes on the tribesmen standing on the crest of a long golden dune. The six men had come closer at daybreak, making them easier to see in the clear morning light. “No sign of

  Hor-pen-Deshret, but I’m troubled that those vile barbarians have come so near. What accounts for their newfound cour age?”

  Bak was equally troubled. He wanted to walk out to them, to demand answers. Not feasible, he knew, for the instant he headed their way, they would slip from sight.

  “We’re in urgent need of news, Nebwa. I hesitate to leave the caravan today, but I must. By late afternoon, when the air is cooler and I can cover the distance quickly, I’ll walk to the river and the village of Rona, the man of influence

  Woser mentioned. He’ll surely know more of the tribes men’s intentions than we do. And who knows? I may even convince him to sway his people’s thoughts in our favor.”

  “You can’t go alone.” Nebwa’s tone brooked no argu ment.

  “I’ll take Pashenuro. Other than befriending Pawah, his pretense of being a drover has led nowhere.” Bak looked at the men on the dune, his thoughts on the journey ahead.

  “We can take nothing with us that the tribesmen would covet, inviting attack, yet we must take a gift of value for the old man.”

  Nebwa snorted. “What, may I ask, would that be? We brought nothing from Buhen. If not for our weapons, we’d be impoverished.”

  “Perhaps Amonked can live without one of the many objects he brought along from Waset.”

  “How about mistress Nefret? I’ll wager he’d be glad to get rid of her.”

  “Two men crossing the barren desert, with Amon alone knows how many human predators lurking about.” Amon ked, his face grave, shook his head. “The very thought ap palls me.”

  “If anyone knows what Hor-pen-Deshret is plotting, the old man will,” Bak insisted.

  “Would that wretched bandit not hold his plans close within his heart, letting no one know his intent?”

  “He would if he could, but secrecy is impossible. During normal times, news travels along the river faster than dust in a high wind. That’s doubly true now, when the people’s lives depend on their knowing where he is and what he means to do.”

  Amonked laid his hand on the brush-like mane of the donkey beside which they were walking, a white jenny carrying two jars of water and a large basket containing the twin foals she had birthed during the night, lying in a nest of pungent straw. Pawah had discovered the tiny newborns at dawn and prevailed upon Amonked to allow him to look after them until they grew strong enough to keep pace with their mother.

  Bak had found Amonked walking with the boy and don keys some distance behind the rest of the inspection party, well away from Nefret and her complaints. Horhotep was walking alongside the concubine’s carrying chair, assuring her, most likely, that she had no reason to worry. As soon as Bak had appropriately praised the foals, Pawah had dropped back to talk with Pashenuro, seeking suggestions about caring for his new charges.

  “Can you not wait until morning?” Amonked asked. “If we maintain a good pace today, according to Seshu, we’ll camp tonight not far from the river. Your trek would be considerably shorter-and safer.”

  “By the time Pashenuro and I strike off on our own, we’ll be less than an hour’s walk from the next signal station and the river.” Bak studied the undulating sands off to the left, burnished gold where struck by the sun, tarnished by the long morning shadows. “Seshu knows of several places where the sandhills rise taller than a man. With the help of the gods and a diversion Nebwa is planning, we should be able to leave the caravan unnoticed.”

  “You’re determined to go, I see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Amonked let out a long, weary sigh. “All right, do so if you must.” He noticed a patch of sand on his kilt, brushed it off. “What would you suggest we give the headman?”

  Bak could think of several objects that might be appro priate under different circumstances. Amonked’s armchair would please the old man beyond words, but it was too large and noticeable and best carried on the back of a don key. The racing dog would do, but would not survive for long when faced with tougher, meaner village curs. The pavilion would provide a wonderful setting for a headman who wished to impress, but they needed the poles for weap ons more than Rona needed status.

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, he shrugged. “An object that won’t attract attention should we be spotted by men of the desert, one that will appear normal and natural from a distance. Something a proud and no doubt stubborn old man can look upon with satisfaction and at the same time show off to those who look to him for leadership and guid ance.”

  Amonked glanced at the donkey by his side, his expres sion speculative, as if she and her twins might be suitable, then glanced toward Pawah and shook his head. Turning his back, he climbed a gradual slope of sand off to the side, gaining a broader perspective of the long line of animals, many of which carried his belongings and those of his com panions from Waset.

  Bak, who had followed, looked at the passing caravan with a soldier’s eye, not that of a man seeking to gladden the heart of a stranger. No general would approve, he knew, but considering what little they had started with, he was pleased. Nebwa had spread the archers along the length of the caravan, close in to the animals. The guards, less well trained and therefore more dispensable, he had distributed along a wider path on both sides of the column. Thanks to the lord Amon and a boundless effort late into the night,

  Minkheper and his helpers had not only created at least one small weapon for each guard but had made enough spears to arm the drovers, with a few to spare. One tent, saved for

  Nefret, had survived their assault, and the pavilio
n would be the next to go. The young woman was upset. Very upset.

  Thus Amonked’s escape.

  He could not help but see the irony of the situation. An attack by desert tribesmen would go a long way toward convincing the inspector the army was needed along the Belly of Stones. However, if set upon by a large enough force, both man and mission might come to an abrupt and fatal-end. The number of men they had to face would

  make a crucial difference. The more men, the less chance they would have of succeeding in spite of Nebwa’s best efforts.

  “This is sure to satisfy him,” Amonked said, pulling a ring off the middle finger of his left hand and offering it to Bak. “My cousin gave it to me when first she attained the throne. I treasure it greatly, but I value more my life and the lives of all who travel with this caravan.”

  The solid gold ring felt heavy in Bak’s palm. The band was broad, supporting a good-sized bezel shaped as a scarab, inscribed on the under side for use as a seal. An object of considerable value. “Are you sure you wish to part with this, sir?”

  “I do. Whether or not the headman can read, he’ll rec ognize the symbol of protection surrounding the royal name. He’ll be suitably impressed, I’m sure.”

  Bak looked closer at the inscription. Maatkare Hatshep sut, it read, after which were the symbols for life, health, and prosperity. The beauty of the scarab, the superb crafts manship, made the ring worthy of the most illustrious of noblemen. He was astonished. The queen would not be pleased to learn that her cousin had given such a fine gift to the elderly headman of a poor frontier village.

  Could he be wrong about Amonked? This stout, rather nondescript man whom everyone believed to be a tool of his powerful cousin had begun to display a far greater depth than Bak had expected. He had prepared well for his task in Wawat, studying many documents. He seemed not to leap to conclusions about the fortresses he inspected. True, he was impressed with the objects he saw in the storage magazines, but taking pleasure in items of value and beauty did not necessarily mean he thought less of the men who kept them safe. Though he had uttered no words of con demnation or praise, he appeared to recognize Horhotep’s limitations and to approve of Nebwa’s efforts to train and equip the men in case of attack. And now the ring.